GOOD  FRIDAY 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


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THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


GOOD  FRIDAY 


AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 
JOHN  MASEFIELD 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  EVERLASTING  MERCY "  "THE  WIDOW 

IN  THE  BYE  STREET"  "THE  TRAGEDY  OP 

POMPEY  THE  GREAT,"  ETC. 


3fom  $  nrk 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1916 

All  right*  r. 


Copybiqht,  1915  and  1916 
Bt  JOHN  MASEFIELD 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  February,  1916. 


GOOD  FRIDAY 

A  DRAMATIC  POEM 


PERSONS 

Pontius  Pilate,  Procurator  of  Judaea. 
Procula,  His  Wife. 
Longinus,  A  Centurion. 
A  Jew,  Leader  of  the  Rabble. 
A  Madman. 
A  Sentry. 
Joseph  op  Ramah. 
Herod. 

Soldiers,  Servants,  the  Jewish  Rabble,  Loiterers, 
Idlers. 


THE  SCENE 

The  Pavement,  or  Paved  Court,  outside  the  Roman  Citadel  in 
Jerusalem.  At  the  back  is  the  barrack  wall,  pierced  in  the 
centre  with  a  double  bronze  door,  weathered  to  a  green 
color.  On  the  right  and  left  sides  of  the  stage  are  battle- 
mented  parapets  overlooking  the  city.  The  stage  or  pave- 
ment is  approached  by  stone  steps  from  the  front,  and  by 
narrow  stone  staircases  in  the  wings,  one  on  each  side,  well 
forward.  These  steps  are  to  suggest  that  the  citadel  is  high 
up  above  the  town,  and  that  the  main  barrack  gate  is  below. 
The  Chief  Citizen,  The  Rabble,  Joseph,  The  Mad- 
man, Herod,  and  The  Loiterers,  etc.,  enter  by  these 
steps.  Pilate,  Procula,  Longinus,  The  Soldiers  and 
Servants  enter  by  the  bronze  doors. 


GOOD  FRIDAY 

A  DRAMATIC  POEM 

Pilate.  Longinus. 

Longinus.  Lord. 

Pilate  [giving  scroll].  Your  warrant.    Take 
the  key. 
Go  to  Barabbas'  cell  and  set  him  free, 
The  mob  has  chosen  him. 

Longinus.  And  Jesus? 

Pilate.  Wait. 

He  can  be  scourged  and  put  outside  the  gate, 
With  warning  not  to  make  more  trouble  here. 
See  that  the  sergeant  be  not  too  severe. 
I  want  to  spare  him. 

Longinus.  And  the  Jew,  the  Priest, 

Outside? 

Pilate.  I'll  see  him  now. 
3 


4  GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Longinus.  Passover  Feast 

Always  brings  trouble,  Lord.    All  shall  be  done. 
Dismiss? 

Pilate.  Dismiss.  [Exit  Longinus. 

There's  blood  about  the  sun, 
This  earthquake  weather  presses  on  the  brain. 

Enter  Procula. 
You? 

Procula.  Dear,  forgive  me,  if  I  come  again 
About  this  Jesus,  but  I  long  to  know 
What  Herod  said.    Did  he  dismiss  him? 

Pilate.  No. 

He  sent  him  back  to  me  for  me  to  try, 
The  charge  being  local. 

Procula.  Have  you  tried  him? 

Pilate.  Ay, 

Henceforth  he  will  be  kept  outside  the  walls. 
Now,  listen,  wife:  whatever  dream  befalls, 
Never  again  send  word  to  me  in  Court 
To  interrupt  a  case.    The  Jews  made  sport 
Of  what  you  dreamed  and  what  you  bade  me  fear 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS  5 

About  this  Jesus  man.    The  laws  are  clear. 
I  must  apply  them,  asking  nothing  more 
Than  the  proved  truth.    Now  tell  me  of  your 

dream: 
What  was  it?    Tell  me  then. 

Procula.  I  saw  a  gleam 

Reddening  the  world  out  of  a  blackened  sky, 
Then  in  the  horror  came  a  hurt  thing's  cry 
Protesting  to  the  death  what  no  one  heard. 

Pilate.  What  did  it  say? 

Procula.  A  cry,  no  spoken  word 

But  crying,  and  a  horror,  and  a  sense 
Of  one  poor  man's  naked  intelligence, 
Pitted  against  the  world  and  being  crushed. 
Then,  waking,  there  was  noise;  a  rabble  rushed 
Following  this  Jesus  here,  crying  for  blood, 
Like  beasts  half-reptile  in  a  jungle  mud. 
And  all  the  horror  threatening  in  the  dim, 
In  what  I  dreamed  of,   seemed  to  threaten 

him.  .  .  . 
So  in  my  terror  I  sent  word  to  you, 


6  GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Begging  you  dearly  to  have  nought  to  do 
"With  that  wise  man. 

Pilate.  I  grant  he  says  wise  things. 
Too  wise  by  half,  and  too  much  wisdom  brings 
Trouble,  I  find.    It  disagrees  with  men. 
We  must  protect  him  from  his  wisdom  then. 

Procula.  What  have  you  done  to  him? 

Pilate.  Made  it  more  hard 

For  him  to  wrangle  in  the  Temple  yard 
Henceforth,  I  hope. 

Enter  Longinxjs. 

Procula.  You  have  not  punished  him? 

Pilate.  Warned  him. 

Longinus.  The  envoy  from  the  Sanhedrim 
Is  here,  my  lord. 

Pilate.  Go.    I  must  see  him.    Stay. 

You  and  your  women,  keep  within  to-day. 
It  is  the  Jewish  Feast  and  blood  runs  high 
Against  us  Romans  when  the  zealots  cry 
Songs  of  their  old  Deliverance  through  the  land. 
Stay,  yet.    Lord  Herod  says  that  he  has  planned 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS  7 

To  visit  us  to-night,  have  all  prepared. 

Procula.  I  would  have  gone  to  Herod  had 
I  dared, 
To  plead  for  this  man  Jesus.    All  shall  be 
Made  ready.    Dear,  my  dream  oppresses  me. 

[Exit. 

Pilate.  It  is  this  earthquake  weather:  it 
will  end 
After  a  shock.    Farewell. 

Enter  Chief  Citizen. 

Chief  Cit.  Hail,  Lord  and  friend. 

I  come  about  a  man  in  bonds  with  you, 
One  Jesus,  leader  of  a  perverse  crew 
That  haunts  the  Temple. 

Pilate.  Yes,  the  man  is  here. 

Chief  Cit.  Charged  with  sedition? 

Pilate.  It  did  not  appear 

That  he  had  been  seditious.    It  was  proved 
That  he  had  mocked  at  rites  which  people  loved. 
No  more  than  that.    I  have  just  dealt  with  him. 
You  wish  to  see  him? 


8  GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Ch.  Cit.  No,  the  Sanhedrim 

Send  me  to  tell  you  of  his  proved  intent. 
You  know  how,  not  long  since,  a  prophet  went 
Through  all  Judaea  turning  people's  brains 
With  talk  of  One  coming  to  loose  their  chains? 

Pilate.  John  the  Baptiser  whom  old  Herod 
killed. 

Ch.  Cit.  The  Jews  expect  that  word  to  be 
fulfilled, 
They  think  that  One  will  come.     This  Jesus 

claims 
To  be  that  Man,  Son  of  the  Name  of  Names, 
The  Anointed  King  who  will  arise  and  seize 
Israel  from  Rome  and  you.   Such  claims  as  these 
Might  be  held  mad  in  other  times  than  ours. 

Pilate.  He  is  not  mad. 

Ch.  Cit.  But  when  rebellion  lowers 

As  now,  from  every  hamlet,  every  farm, 
One  word  so  uttered  does  unreckoned  harm. 

Pilate.  How  do  you  know  this? 

Ch.  Cit.  From  a  man,  his  friend, 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS  9 

Frightened  by  thought  of  where  such  claims 

would  end. 
There  had  been  rumors,  yet  we  only  heard 
The  fact  but  now.    We  send  you  instant  word. 

Pilate.  Yes.    This  is  serious  news.    Would  I 
had  known. 
But  none  the  less,  this  Jesus  is  alone. 
A  common  country  preacher,  as  men  say, 
No  more  than  that,  he  leads  no  big  array; 
No  one  believes  his  claim? 

Ch.  Cit.  At  present,  no. 

He  had  more  friends  a  little  while  ago, 
Before  he  made  these  claims  of  being  King. 

Pilate.  You  know  about  him  then? 

Ch.  Cit.  His  ministering 

Was  known  to  us,  of  course. 

Pilate.  And  disapproved? 

Ch.  Cit.  Not  wholly,  no;  some,  truly;  some 
we  loved. 
At  first  he  only  preached.    He  preaches  well. 

Pilate.  What  of? 


10        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Ch.  Cit.  Of  men,  and  of  escape  from  hell 
By  good  deeds  done.    But  when  he  learned  his 

power 
And  flatterers  came,  then,  in  an  evil  hour, 
As  far  as  I  can  judge,  his  head  was  turned. 
A  few  days  past,  from  all  that  we  have  learned 
He  made  this  claim,  and  since  persists  therein. 
Deluders  are  best  checked  when  they  begin. 
So,   when  we  heard   it  from  this   frightened 

friend, 
We  took  this  course  to  bring  it  to  an  end. 

Pilate.  Rightly.    I  thank  you.    Do  I  under- 
stand 
That  friends  have  fallen  from  him  since  he 

planned 
To  be  this  King? 

Ch.  Cit.  They  have,  the  most  part. 

Pilate.  Why? 

What  makes  them  turn? 

Ch.  Cit.  The  claim  is  blasphemy 

Punished  by  death  under  the  Jewish  laws. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS         11 

Pilate.  And  under  ours,  if  sufficient  cause 
Appear,  and  yet,  if  all  the  Jews  despise 
This  claimant's  folly,  would  it  not  be  wise 
To  pay  no  heed,  not  make  important  one 
Whom  all  contemn? 

Ch.  Cit.  His  evil  is  not  done. 

His  claim  persists,  the  rabble's  mind  will  turn. 
Better  prevent  him,  Lord,  by  being  stern. 
The  man  has  power. 

Pilate.  That  is  true,  he  has. 

Ch.  Cit.  His  is   the  first   claim  since   the 
Baptist  was, 
Better  not  let  it  thrive. 

Pilate.  It  does  not  thrive. 

Ch.  Cit.  All  ill  weeds  prosper,  Lord,  if  left 
alive. 
The  soil  is  ripe  for  such  a  weed  as  this. 
The  Jews  await  a  message  such  as  his, 
The  Anointed  Man,  of  whom  our  Holy  Books 
Prophesy  much.    The  Jewish  people  looks 
For  Him  to  come. 


12        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Pilate.  These  ancient  prophecies 

Are  drugs  to  keep  crude  souls  from  being  wise. 
Time  and  again   Rome  proves  herself  your 

friend, 
Then  some  mad  writing  brings  it  to  an  end. 
Time  and  again,  until  my  heart  is  sick. 
Dead  prophets  spreading  madness  in  the  quick. 
And  now  this  Jesus  whom  I  hoped  to  save. 
Have  you  the  depositions? 

Ch.  Cit.  Yes,  I  have. 

Pilate.  Give  me. 

Ch.  Cit.  This  is  the  docquet. 

Pilate.  This  is  grave. 

Ch.  Cit.  I  thought  that  you  would  think  so. 

Pilate.  I  will  learn 

What  he  can  say  to  this  and  then  return. 
Wait.     I  must  speak.     Although  I  shall  not 

spare 
Anyone,  man  or  woman,  who  may  dare 
To  make  a  claim  that  threatens  Roman  rule, 
I  do  not  plan  to  be  a  priestly  tool. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS         13 

I  know  your  Temple  plots;  pretend  not  here 
That  you,  the  priest,  hold  me,   the  Roman, 

dear. 
You,  like  the  other  Jews,  await  this  King 
Who  is  to  set  you  free,  who  is  to  ding 
Rome  down  to  death,  as  your  priests'  brains 

suppose. 
This  case  of  Jesus  shows  it,  plainly  shows.     , 
He  and  his  claim  were  not  at  once  disowned; 
You  waited,  while  you  thought  "He  shall  be 

throned, 
We  will  support  him,  if  he  wins  the  crowd." 
You  would  have,  too.    He  would  have  been  en- 
dowed 
With  all  your  power  to  support  his  claim 
Had  he  but  pleased  the  rabble  as  at  first. 
But,  since  he  will  not  back  the  priestly  aim, 
Nor  stoop  to  lure  the  multitude,  you  thirst 
To  win  my  favor  by  denouncing  him. 
This  rebel  does  not  suit  the  Sanhedrim. 
I  know.  .  .  .  The  next  one  may. 


14        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Ch.  Cit.  You  wrong  us,  Sire. 

Pilate.  Unless  he  blench,  you  'complish  your 

desire 

With  Jesus,  though;  there  is  no  king  save  Rome 

Here,  while  I  hold  the  reins.    Wait  till  I  come. 

[Exit  Pilate. 
The  Madman.  Only  a  penny,  a  penny, 
Lilies  brighter  than  any 
White  lilies  picked  for  the  Feast. 

He  enters,  tapping  with  his  stick. 

I  am  a  poor  old  man  who  cannot  see, 
Will  the  great  noble  present  tell  to  me 
If  this  is  the  Paved  Court? 

Ch.  Cit.  It  is. 

Madman.  Where  men 

Beg  for  a  prisoner's  freedom? 

Ch.  Cit.  Yes.   What  then? 

Madman.  I  come  to  help  the  choosing. 

Ch.  Cit.  You  can  go. 

Madman.  Where,  lord? 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        15 

Ch.  Cit.  Why,  home.    You  hear  that  noise 
below, 
Or  are  you  deaf? 

Madman.  No,  lordship,  only  blind. 

Ch.  Cit.  Come    this-day-next-year    if    you 
have  the  mind. 
This  year  you  come  too  late,  go  home  again. 

Madman.  Lord.    Is  the  prisoner  loosed? 

Ch.  Cit.  Yes,  in  the  lane. 

Can  you  not  hear  them  cry  "Barabbas"  there? 

Madman.  Barabbas,  Lord? 

Ch.  Cit.  The  prisoner  whom  they  bear 

In  triumph  home. 

Madman.  Barabbas? 

Ch.  Cit.  Even  he. 

Madman.  Are  not  you  wrong,  my  Lord? 

Ch.  Cit.  Why  should  I  be? 

Madman.  There  was  another  man  in  bonds, 
most  kind 
To  me,  of  old,  who  suffer,  being  blind. 
Surely  they  called  for  him?    One  Jesus?    No? 


16        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Ch.  Cit.  The  choice  was  made  a  little  while 
ago. 
Barabbas  is  set  free,  the  man  you  name 
Is  not  to  be  released. 

Madman.  And  yet  I  came 

Hoping  to  see  him  loosed. 

Ch.  Cit.  He  waits  within 

Till  the  just  pain  is  fitted  to  his  sin. 
It  will  go  hard  with  him,  or  I  mistake. 
Pray  God  it  may. 

Madman.  I  sorrow  for  his  sake. 

Ch.  Cit.  God's  scathe. 

Enter  more  Jews. 

Madman.        A  penny  for  the  love  of  Heaven. 
A  given  penny  is  a  sin  forgiven. 
Only  a  penny,  friends. 

1st  Cit.  The  case  was  proved.    He  uttered 
blasphemy. 
Yet  Pilate  gives  him  stripes :  the  man  should  die. 

3rd  Cit.  Wait  here  awhile.   It  is  not  over  yet. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS         17 

This  is  the  door,  the  man  shall  pay  his  debt. 
After  the  beating  they  will  let  him  go 
And  we  shall  catch  him. 

2nd  Cit.  We  will  treat  him  so 

That  he  will  not  be  eager  to  blaspheme 
So  glibly,  soon. 

3rd  Cit.  We  will. 

1st  Cit.  Did  Pilate  seem 

To  you,  to  try  to  spare  him? 

2nd  Cit.  Ay,  he  did, 

The  Roman  dog. 

3rd  Cit.  We  will  not. 

2nd  Cit.  God  forbid. 

1st  Cit.  Well,  we'll  stay  here. 

2nd  Cit.  We  will  anoint  this  King. 

Ch.  Cit.  You  talk  of  Jesus? 

1st  Cit.  Yes. 

Ch.  Cit.  I  had  to  bring 

News  from  the  Temple  but  a  minute  past, 
To-day  is  like  to  be  King  Jesus'  last. 

1st  Cit.  So? 


18         GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Ch.  Cit.  It  is  sure.    Wait  here  a  little  while. 

1st  Cit.  We  mean  to,  Lord.     His  tongue 
shall  not  defile 
Our  Lord  again,  by  God. 

Ch.  Cit.  By  a  happy  chance 

There  came  a  hang-dog  man  with  looks  askance, 
Troubled  in  mind,  who  wished  to  speak  with  us. 
He  said  that  he  had  heard  the  man  speak  thus 
That  he  was  the  Messiah,  God  in  man. 
He  had  believed  this,  but  his  doubts  began 
When  Jesus,  not  content,  claimed  further  things; 
To  be  a  yoke  upon  the  necks  of  Kings, 
Emperor  and  Priest.    Then,  though  he  found 

him  kind 
In  friendship,  he  was  troubled.    With  bowed 

mind 
He  came  to  us  and  swore  what  Jesus  claimed. 
This  Emperor  over  Kings  will  now  be  tamed. 

Voices.  Will  Pilate  back  the  priests? 

Ch.  Cit.  He  cannot  fail. 

It  threatens  Roman  power. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS         19 

A  Voice.  Listen,  friends, 

Pilate  is  coming;  hark!  the  sitting  ends. 
No.    Tis  the  Bench. 

[The  bench  is  set  by  Slaves.] 
What  will  Lord  Pilate  do? 

The  Slaves  do  not  answer. 

You  Nubian  eunuchs  answer  to  the  Jew. 
Is  the  man  cast? 

A  Slave.  The  circumcised  will  see 

When  Rome  is  ready. 

[Goes  in  and  shuts  the  door.] 

A  Voice.  There.    They  nail  a  tree. 

They  make  a  cross,  for  those  are  spikes  being 

driven. 
He's  damned. 

A  Voice.      Not  so,  he  still  may  be  forgiven. 
The  cross  may  be  for  one  of  those  two  thieves. 

A  Voice.  I  had  forgotten  them. 

A  Voice.  This  man  believes 

That  Pilate  was  inclined  to  let  him  go. 


20        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

2nd  Cit.  That  was  before  this  charge  came. 
A  Voice.  Even  so 

This  Roman  swine  is  fond  of  swine  like  these. 
A  Voice.  Come,  Pilate,  come. 
A  Voice.  He  will  not  have  much  ease 

This  Paschal  Feast,  if  Jesus  is  not  cast. 
A  Voice.    There  is  the  door.     Lord  Pilate 
comes  at  last. 
No.    'Tis  the  trumpet. 

[A  Trumpeter  comes  out] 
Voices.  Blow  the  trumpet,  friend. 

A  Voice.  Roman.    Recruit.    When  will  the 

sitting  end? 
Voices.  Fling  something  at  him.    Roman. 
A  Voice.  0,  have  done. 

He  will  not  hang  until  the  midday  sun 
And  we  shall  lose  our  sleeps.    Let  sentence  pass. 
A  Voice  [singing].   As  I  came  by  the  market 
I  heard  a  woman  sing: 
"My  love  did  truly  promise  to  wed  me  with  a 
ring, 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        21 

But,  oh,  my  love  deceived  me  and  left  me  here 

forlorn 
With  my  spirit  full  of  sorrow,  and  my  baby  to 
be  born." 

A  Voice.  Why  are  you  standing  here? 

A  Voice.  I  came  to  see. 

A  Voice.  O,  did  you  so? 

A  Voice.  Why  do  you  look  at  me? 

A  Voice.  You  were  his  friend:  you  come 
from  Galilee. 

A  Voice.  I  do  not. 

A  Voice.  Yes,  you  do. 

A  Voice.  I  tell  you,  No. 

A  Voice.  You  know  this  man  quite  well. 

A  Voice.  I  do  not  know 

One  thing  about  him. 

A  Voice.  Does  he  know  the  cur? 

A  Voice.  Ay,  but  denies.  He  was  his  follower. 

A  Voice.  I  was  not. 

A  Voice.  Why,  I  saw  you  in  the  hall, 

I  watched  you. 


22        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

A  Voice.        I  was  never  there  at  all. 

A  Voice.  So  he  would  be  a  King. 

A  Voice.  That  was  the  plan. 

A  Voice.  I  swear  to  God  I  never  saw  the 

man. 
A  Voice.  He  did;  you  liar;  fling  him  down 

the  stair. 
A  Voice.  I  did  not,  friends.    I  hate  the  man, 

I  swear. 
Voices.  You  swear  too  much  for  truth,  down 

with  him,  sons. 
Leave  him,  here's  Pilate. 

Enter  Longinus  and  Soldiers. 

Longinus.  Stand  back.    Keep  further  back. 
Get  down  the  stair, 
Stop    all   this   wrangling.     Make  less  babble 

there. 
Keep  back  yet  further.    See  you  keep  that  line. 
Silence.    These  Jewish  pigs. 
The  Jews.  The  Roman  swine. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        23 

Enter  Pilate. 

Pilate.  Longinus. 

Longinus.  Lord. 

Pilate.  No  Jew  here  thinks  him  King. 
They  want  his  blood. 

Longinus.  They  would  want  anything 

That  would  beguile  the  hours  until  the  Feast. 

Pilate.  I  would  be  glad  to  disappoint  the 
priest. 
I  like  this  Jesus  man.    A  man  so  wise 
Ought  not  to  end  through  crazy  prophecies. 
Still,  he  persists. 

Longinus.  They  are  a  stubborn  breed. 

The  medicine  Cross  is  what  they  mostly  need. 

Pilate.  Still,  this  man  is,  in  fact,  a  kind  of  king, 
A  God  beside  these  beasts  who  spit  and  sting, 
The  best  Jew  I  have  known. 

Longinus.  He  had  his  chance. 

Pilate.  O,  yes,  he  had.    We'll  let  the  Jews 
advance 
Into  the  court.    I  tried  to  set  him  free. 


24        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Still,  if  he  will  persist,  the  thing  must  be. 
And  yet  I  am  sorry. 

Longinus.  I  am  sorry,  too. 

He  seemed  a  good  brave  fellow,  for  a  Jew. 
Still,  when  a  man  is  mad  there  is  no  cure 
But  death,  like  this. 

Pilate.  I  fear  so. 

Longinus.  I  am  sure. 

Shall  I  begin? 

Pilate.  Yes. 

Longinus.  Sound  the  Assembly.    [Trumpet.] 
Sound 
The  Imperial  call.    [Trumpet.] 

Pilate.  You  people,  gathered  round, 

Behold  your  King. 

Voices.  Our  King.  I  see  him.  Where? 
That  heap  of  clothes  behind  the  soldiers  there. 
He  has  been  soundly  beaten.  Look,  he  bleeds. 
A  cross  on  Old  Skull  Hill  is  what  he  needs. 

Pilate.  What  would  you,  then,  that  I  should 
do  to  him? 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        25 

Voices.  Stone  the  blasphemer,  tear  him  limb 
from  limb, 
Kill  him  with  stones,  he  uttered  blasphemy, 
Give  him  to  us,  for  us  to  crucify. 
Crucify! 

Pilate.  Would  you  crucify  your  King? 

Voices.  He  is  no  King  of  ours ;  we  have  no  King 
But  Caesar.    Crucify! 

Pilate.  Bring  pen  and  ink. 

Longinus.  Hold   up   the  prisoner,   Lucius; 
give  him  drink. 

Pilate.  I  come  to  sentence. 

Servant.  Writing  things,  my  lord. 

Pilate.  Fasten  the  parchment  to  the  piece 
of  board. 
So.  I  will  write. 

Voices.  What  does  his  writing  mean? 

It  is  the  sentence  of  this  Nazarene, 
Condemning  him  to  death.    A  little  while 
And  he'll  be  ours.    See  Lord  Pilate  smile. 
Why  does  he  smile? 


26        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Pilate.  Longinus. 

Longinus.  Lord. 

Pilate.  Come  here. 

Go  to  that  man,  that  upland  targeteer, 
I  want  this  writ  in  Hebrew.    Bid  him  write 
Big  easy  letters  that  will  catch  the  sight. 
Longinus.  I  will,  my  lord.    Make  way. 

[Exit  Longinus. 
A  Voice.  What's  on  the  scroll? 

A  Voice.  It  gives  the  prisoner  into  his  con- 
trol 
To  nail  to  death,  the  foul  blaspheming  beast. 
A  Voice.  D'you  think  he  will  be  dead  before 

the  Feast? 
A  Voice.  They'll  spear  him  if  he  lingers  until 

dark. 
A  Voice.  When  Feast  begins  he  will  be  stiff 
and  stark. 
There's  little  life  left  in  him  as  it  is. 
Voices.  We'll  hammer  iron  through  those 
hands  of  his, 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        27 

And  through  his  feet,  and  when  the  cross  is  set 
Jolt  it;  remember.     I  will  not  forget. 

A  Voice.  Here  comes  the  sentence. 
Enter  Longinus. 

A  Voice.  Wait;  it  is  not  signed. 

A  Voice.  Come  to  the  hill,  you  will  be  left 
behind. 
I  want  a  good  place  at  the  cross's  foot. 

A  Voice.  Fve  got  a  stone  for  when  they 
move  the  brute. 
Besides,  I  mean  to  bait  him  on  the  way. 
I'll  spatter  him  with  filth. 

A  Voice.  No,  come  away. 

Pilate.  Imperial  finding  in  the  High  Priest's 
suit. 
In  the  name  of  Caesar  and  of  Rome.  .  .  . 

Longinus.  Salute. 

Pilate.  I,  Procurator  of  Judaea,  say 
That  Jesus,  called  the  King,  be  led  away 
To  death  by  crucifixion,  here  and  now. 
In  the  name  of  Caesar  and  of  Rome.  .  .  . 


28        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Longinus.  We  bow 

To  the  sentence  of  the  court. 

Pilate.  See  sentence  done. 

This  is  your  warrant. 

Longinus.  Sentence  shall  be  done. 

Voices.  Away,  friends,  hurry.    Keep  a  place 
for  me. 
Get  there  before  they  come,  then  we  shall  see 
All  of  the  nailing  and  the  fixing  on. 

Pilate.  Longinus. 

Longinus.  Lord. 

Pilate.  Display  this  scroll  upon 

The  head  of  Jesus'  cross,  that  men  may  read. 
Wait;  I'll  declare  it  publicly.    Take  heed.  .  .  . 
I  add  this  word,  that  over  Jesus'  head 
This  scroll  shall  be  displayed  till  he  is  dead. 
Show  it,  Longinus.    Read  it  if  you  choose. 

Voices.  "  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  the  King  of  the 
Jews." 
We'll  make  him  King,   we'll   set  him  up  in 
state. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        29 

At  Golgotha.  Come;  drag  him  through  the  gate. 
Give  him  his  cross.    Come,  soldiers. 

Ch.  Cit.  Israel,  wait. 

Wait.    I  must  speak.    Lord  Pilate. 

Voices.  Stand  aside.  .  .  . 

Are  we  to  miss  his  being  crucified? 

Ch.  Cit.  Wait.    Only  wait.    One  word. 

Madman.  Lord  Pilate.    Lord. 

Sentry.  Stand  back. 

Madman.  I'll  speak. 

Sentry.  I'll  tame  you  with  the  sword. 

Madman.  Lord  Pilate,  Jesus  is  an  upright 
man, 
I  heard  his  teaching  since  it  first  began. 
You  are  mistaken,  Lord,  you  are  misled. 
Spare  him,  great  King. 

Sentry.  Get  down. 

Madman.  Kill  me  instead. 

He  never  said  this  thing.       [He  is  beaten  aside.] 

Longintjs.  The  company, 

Attention.    Front.    Take  up  the  prisoner.    By 


30        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  left,  quick  wheel.    Down  to  the  courtyard, 
wheel. 

The  Troops  go  out  by  the  doors,  into 

the  barracks,  so  as  to  reach  the  main  gate 

from  within.    The  Prisoner  is  not  shown, 

but  only  suggested. 

A  Voice.  He  cannot  lift  his  cross,  I  saw  him 

reel. 
A  Voice.  We'll   find    a   man    to   bring   it. 
Hurry,  friends. 
Three  to  be  nailed. 

A  Voice.      The  thieves  will  make  good  ends; 
They  always  do.    This  fellow  will  die  soon. 
A  Voice.  The  troops  will  spear  them  all  be- 
fore full  moon. 
Come;  watch  them  march  them  out. 

Get  mud  to  fling. 
They  hurry  down  the  staircase  O.P.  side. 
Ch.  Cit.  [to   Pilate],   Lord    Pilate,    do   not 
write  "  Jesus  the  King," 
But  that  "He  called  himself,  'Jesus  the  King.' " 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        31 

Pilate.  Empty  this  water  here. 

[Servant  does.] 
Remove  this  board. 
Take  in  the  bench. 

Ch.  Cit.  I  have  to  ask,  my  lord, 

That  you  will  change  the  wording  of  your  scroll, 
My  lord,  it  cuts  my  people  to  the  soul. 
Pilate.  Tell  Caius  Scirrus  that  I  want  him. 

[Exit  Servant. 
So.  [To  Chief  Citizen.] 
What  I  have  written,  I  have  written.    Go. 

Exit  Chief  Citizen.    Pilate  watches 
him.    A  yell  below  as  the  Troops  march 
out  from  the  main  gate.    Longinus'  voice 
is  heard  shouting. 
Longinus.  Right  wheel.     Quick  march. 
Close  up.    Keep  your  files  close. 

A  march  is  played,  oboe  and  trumpet. 
Pilate  goes  in,  the  Troops  salute,  the 
bronze  doors  are  closed,  but  a  Sentry  stands 
outside  them.    The  Madman  remains. 


32        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Madman.  They  cut  my  face,  there's  blood 
upon  my  brow. 
So,  let  it  run,  I  am  an  old  man  now, 
An  old,  blind  beggar  picking  filth  for  bread. 
Once  I  wore  silk,  drank  wine, 
Spent  gold  on  women,  feasted,  all  was  mine; 
But  this  uneasy  current  in  my  head 
Burst,  one  full  moon,  and  cleansed  me,  then  I  saw 
Truth  like  a  perfect  crystal,  life  its  flaw, 
I  told  the  world,  but  I  was  mad,  they  said. 

I  had  a  valley  farm  above  a  brook, 

My  sheep  bells  there  were  sweet, 

And  in  the  summer  heat 

My  mill  wheels  turned,  yet  all  these  things  they 

took; 
Ah,  and  I  gave  them,  all  things  I  forsook 
But  that  green  blade  of  wheat, 
My  own  soul's  courage,  that  they  did  not  take. 

I  will  go  on,  although  my  old  heart  ache. 
Not  long,  not  long. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        33 

Soon  I  shall  pass  behind 

This  changing  veil  to   that  which  does  not 

change, 
My  tired  feet  will  range 
In  some  green  valley  of  eternal  mind 
Where  Truth  is  daily  like  the  water's  song. 

Enter  the  Chief  Citizen. 

Ch.  Cit.  Where  is  Lord  Pilate? 

Madman.  Gone  within. 

Ch.  Cit.  You  heard 

The  way  he  spoke  to  me? 

Madman.  No,  not  a  word. 

The  dogs  so  bayed  for  blood,  I  could  not  hear. 
Ask  the  tall  sentry  yonder  with  the  spear. 

Ch.  Cit.  I  wish  to  see  Lord  Pilate. 

Sentry.  Stand  aside. 

Ch.  Cit.  Send  word  to  him;  I  cannot  be 
denied. 
I  have  to  see  him;  it  concerns  the  State 
Urgently,  too,  I  tell  you. 


34        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Sentry.  It  can  wait. 

Ch.  Cit.  It  may  mean  bloodshed.     ' 

Sentry.  Bloodshed  is  my  trade. 

A  sentry's  orders  have  to  be  obeyed 
The  same  as  God's,  that  you  were  talking  of. 

Ch.  Cit.  I  tell  you,  I  must  see  him. 

Sentry.  That's  enough. 

You  cannot  now. 

Madman.  The  soldier's  words  are  true. 

Ch.  Cit.  Could  you  send  word? 

Sentry.  Sir,  I  have  answered  you. 

Ch.  Cit.  Those  words  that  Pilate  wrote,  the 
Hebrew  screed, 
May  cause  a  riot. 

Madman.  Yes? 

Ch.  Cit.  And  death. 

Sentry.  Indeed. 

You  got  the  poor  man's  life,  what  would  you 
more? 

Ch.  Cit.  Means  to  see  Pilate. 

Sentry.  As  I  said  before, 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS         35 

You  cannot.    Stand  away.    A  man  like  you 
Ought  to  know  better  than  to  lead  a  crew 
To  yell  for  a  man's  blood.    God  stop  my  breath, 
What  does  a  man  like  you  with  blood  and  death? 
Goto. 

Ch.  Cit.  You  will  not  send? 

Sentry.  I  will  not  send. 

Ch.  Cit.  [going].  You  shall  regret  this. 

Sentry.  Right.    Goodbye,  my  friend. 

Ch.  Cit.  Means  will  be  found. 

[Exit. 

Sentry.  These  priests,  these  preaching  folk. 

[Pause.    Sings.] 
"Upon  a  summer  morning,  I  bade  my  love 

goodbye, 
In  the  old  green  glen  so  far  away, 
To  go  to  be  a  soldier  on  biscuits  made  of  rye." 

It  is  darker  than  it  was. 
Madman.  It  is  falling  dark. 

Sentry.  It  feels  like  earthquake  weather. 
Listen. 


36         GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Madman.  Hark. 

Sentry.  It  sounded  like  a  shock  inside  the 

walls. 
Madman.  God     celebrates     the    madman's 

funerals. 
Sentry.  The  shouts  came  from  the  Temple. 
Madman.  Yes,  they  sing 

Glory  to  God  there,  having  killed  their  King. 
Sentry.  You  knew  that  man  they  are  hang- 
ing? 
Madman.  Yes.    Did  you? 

Sentry.  Not  till  I  saw  him  scourged.    Was  he 

a  Jew? 
Madman.  No.    Wisdom   comes   from  God, 
and  he  was  wise. 
I  have  touched  wisdom  since  they  took  my  eyes. 
Sentry.  So  you  were  blinded?    Why? 
Madman.  Thinking  aloud, 

One  Passover. 
Sentry.  How  so? 

Madman.  I  told  the  crowd 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        37 

That  only  a  bloody  God  would  care  for  blood. 
The  crowd  kill  kids  and  smear  the  lintel  wood, 
To  honor  God,  who  lives  in  the  pure  stars. 
Sentry.  You  must  have  suffered;  they  are 

angry  scars. 
Madman.  There  is  no  scar  inside. 
Sentry.  That  may  be  so; 

Still,  it  was  mad;  men  do  not  wish  to  know 
The  truth  about  their  customs,  nor  aught  else. 

[Cries  off.] 
Madman.  They  have  nailed  the  teacher  Jesus 

by  those  yells. 
Sentry.  It  is  darker.    There'll  be  earthquake 
before  night. 
What  sort  of  man  was  he? 

Madman.  He  knew  the  right 

And  followed  her,  a  stony  road,  to  this. 

Sentry.  I  find  sufficient  trouble  in  what  is 
Without  my  seeking  what  is  right  or  wrong. 
Madman.  All  have   to   seek   her,   and   the 
search  is  long. 


38         GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Sentky.  Maybe. 

Madman.  And  hard. 

Sentry.  Maybe. 

[Pawse.    Sings.] 

"  I  mean  to  be  a  captain  before  I  do  return, 

Though  the  winters  they  may  freeze  and  the 

summers  they  may  burn, 

I  mean  to  be  a  captain  and  command  a  hundred 

men 

And  the  women  who  ..."     [A  bugle  call  off.] 

There  is  recall. 

The  doors  are  opened  and  the  Sentry  goes. 

Madman.  The  wild-duck,  stringing  through 

the  sky, 

Are  south  away. 

Their  green  necks  glitter  as  they  fly, 

The  lake  is  gray, 

So  still,  so  lone,  the  fowler  never  heeds. 

The   wind    goes    rustle,    rustle,    through    the 

reeds. 
****** 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        39 

There  they  find  peace  to  have  their  own  wild 

souls. 
In  that  still  lake, 

Only  the  moonrise  or  the  wind  controls 
The  way  they  take, 
Through  the  gray  reeds,  the  cocking  moorhen's 

lair, 

Rippling  the  pool,  or  over  leagues  of  air. 
****** 

Not  thus,  not  thus  are  the  wild  souls  of  men. 
No  peace  for  those 

Who  step  beyond  the  blindness  of  the  pen 
To  where  the  skies  unclose. 
For  them  the  spitting  mob,  the  cross,  the  crown 
of  thorns, 

The  bull  gone  mad,  the  saviour  on  his  horns. 

****** 

Beauty  and  Peace  have  made 
No  peace,  no  still  retreat, 
No  solace,  none. 
Only  the  unafraid 
Before  life's  roaring  street 


40        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Touch  Beauty's  feet, 

Know  Truth,  do  as  God  bade, 

Become  God's  son.  [Pause.] 

Darkness  come  down,  cover  a  brave  man's  pain. 
Let  the  bright  soul  go  back  to  God  again. 
Cover  that  tortured  flesh,  it  only  serves 
To  hold  that  thing  which  other  power  nerves. 
Darkness,  come  down,  let  it  be  midnight  here, 
In  the  dark  night  the  untroubled  soul  sings  clear. 

[It  darkens.] 
I  have  been  scourged,  blinded  and  crucified, , 
My  blood  burns  on  the  stones  of  every  street 
In  every  town;  wherever  people  meet 
I  have  been  hounded  down,  in  anguish  died. 

[It  darkens.] 
The  creaking  door  of  flesh  rolls  slowly  back. 
Nerve  by  red  nerve  the  links  of  living  crack, 
Loosing  the  soul  to  tread  another  track. 

Beyond  the  pain,  beyond  the  broken  clay, 
A  glimmering  country  lies 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        41 

Where  life  is  being  wise, 

All  of  the  beauty  seen  by  truthful  eyes 

Are  lilies  there,  growing  beside  the  way. 

Those  golden  ones  will  loose  the  torted  hands, 

Smooth  the  scarred  brow,  gather  the  breaking 

soul, 
Whose  earthly  moments  drop  like  falling  sands 
To  leave  the  spirit  whole. 
Now  darkness  is  upon  the  face  of  the  earth. 

[He  goes. 
[Pilate  entering,  as  the  darkness  reddens  to  a 

glare.] 
Pilate.  This  monstrous  day  is  in  the  pangs 

of  birth. 
There  was  a  shock.     I  wish  the  troops  were 

back 
From  Golgotha.    The  heavens  are  more  black 
Than  in  the  great  shock  in  my  first  year's  rule. 
Please  God  these  zealot  pilgrims  will  keep  cool 
Nor  think  this  done  by  God  for  any  cause. 
The  lightning  jags  the  heaven  in  bloody  scraws 


42         GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Like  chronicles  of  judgment.    Now  it  breaks. 
Now  rain. 

Procula  [entering].    O  Pilate. 

Pilate.  What? 

Procula.  For  all  our  sakes 

Speak.    Where  is  Jesus? 

Pilate.  He  is  crucified. 

Procula.  Crucified? 

Pilate.        Put  to  death.    My  wife,  I  tried 
To  save  him,  but  such  men  cannot  be  saved. 
Truth  to  himself  till  death  was  all  he  craved. 
He  has  his  will. 

Procula.  So  what  they  said  is  true. 

O  God,  my  God.    But  when  I  spoke  to  you 
You  said  that  you  had  warned  him. 

Pilate.  That  is  so. 

Another  charge  was  brought  some  hours  ago, 
That  he  was  claiming  to  be  that  great  King 
Foretold  by  prophets,  who  shall  free  the  Jews. 
This  he  persisted  in.    I  could  not  choose 
But  end  a  zealot  claiming  such  a  thing. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        43 

Peocula.  He  was  no  zealot. 

Pilate.  Yes,  on  this  one  point. 

Had  he  recanted,  well.    But  he  was  firm. 
So  he  was  cast. 

Procula.        The  gouts  of  gore  anoint 
That  temple  to  the  service  of  the  worm. 
It  is  a  desecration  of  our  power. 
A  rude  poor  man  who  pitted  his  pure  sense 
Against  what  holds  the  world  its  little  hour, 
Blind  force  and  fraud,  priests'  mummery  and 

pretence, 
Could  you  not  see  that  this  is  what  he  did? 

Pilate.  Most  clearly,  wife.   But  Roman  laws 
forbid 
That  I  should  weigh,  like  God,  the  worth  of  souls. 
I  act  for  Rome,  and  Rome  is  better  rid 
Of  these  rare  spirits  whom  no  law  controls. 
He  broke  a  statute,  knowing  from  the  first 
Whither  his  act  would  lead,  he  was  not  blind. 

Procula.  No,  friend,  he  followed  hungry  and 
athirst 


44        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

The  lonely  exaltation  of  his  mind. 

So  Rome,  our  mother,  profits  by  his  death, 

You  think  so? 

Pilate.  Ay. 

Procula.  We  draw  securer  breath, 

We  Romans,  from  his  gasping  on  the  cross? 

Pilate.  Some  few  will  be  the  calmer  for  his 
loss. 
Many,  perhaps;  he  made  a  dangerous  claim. 
Even  had  I  spared  it  would  have  been  the  same 
A  year,  or  two,  from  now.    Forget  him,  friend. 

Procula.  I  have  no  part  nor  parcel  in  his  end. 
Rather  than  have  it  thought  I  buy  my  ease, 
My  body's  safety,  honor,  dignities, 
Life  and  the  rest  at  such  a  price  of  pain 
There  [she  stabs  her  arm  with  her  dagger]  is  my 

blood,  to  wash  away  the  stain. 
There.    There  once  more.    It  fetched  too  dear  a 

price. 
O  God,  receive  that  soul  in  paradise. 

Pilate.  What  have  you  done? 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        45 

Procula.  No  matter;  it  atones. 

His  blood  will  clamor  from  the  city  stones. 

Pilate.  Go  in.    No,  let  me  bind  it. 

Procula.  Someone  comes. 

A  councillor,  I  think.    Ask  what  he  wants. 

Enter  Joseph. 

Joseph.  Greetings,  Lord  Pilate. 

Pilate.  And  to  you. 

Joseph  [to  Procula].  And  you. 

[to  Pilate].  I  have  a  boon  to  ask. 
Procula.  What  can  we  do? 

Joseph.  Lord  Pilate,  may  I  speak? 
Pilate  [to  Procula].   Go  in.   [She  goes  in.] 
Go  on  [to  Joseph]. 
Joseph.  The  man  called  Christ,  the  follower 

of  John, 
Was  crucified  to-day  by  your  decree. 
[Pilate  bows.]   He  was  my  master,  very  dear 

to  me. 
I  will  not  speak  of  that.    I  only  crave 


46        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Leave  to  prepare  his  body  for  the  grave, 
And  then  to  bury  him.    May  I  have  leave? 

Pilate.  Yes,  you  may  have  him  when  the 
guards  give  leave. 
Wait.    In  a  case  like  this,  men  may  believe 
That  the  dead  master  is  not  really  dead. 
This  preaching  man,  this  King,  has  been  the 

head 
Of  men  who  may  be  good  and  mean  no  harm, 
Whose  tenets,  none  the  less,  have  caused  alarm 
First  to  the  priests,  and  through  the  priests  to 

me. 
I  wish  this  preacher's  followers  to  see 
That  teaching  of  the  kind  is  to  be  curbed. 
I  mean,  established  truths  may  be  disturbed, 
But  not  the  Jews,  nor  Rome.    You  understand? 

Joseph.  I  follow;  yes. 

Pilate.  A  riot  might  be  fanned, 

Such  things  have  been,  over  the  martyr's  grave. 

Joseph.  His  broken  corpse  is  all  his  followers 
crave. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        47 

Pilate.  Why,  very  well  then. 

Joseph.  Will  you  give  your  seal? 

Pilate.  My  seal?    What  for? 

Joseph.  That  I  may  show  the  guard 

And  have  the  body. 

Pilate.  Gladly;  but  I  feel  .  .  . 

Not  yet;  not  until  dark. 

Joseph.  It  will  be  hard 

To  bury  him  to-night  .  .  .  the  feast  begins. 

Pilate.  I  know,  but  still,  when  men  are 
crucified  .  .  . 

Joseph.  There  is  no  hope  of  that.    The  man 
has  died. 

Pilate.  Died?    Dead  already? 

Joseph.  Yes. 

Pilate.  'Tis  passing  soon. 

Joseph.  God  broke  that  bright  soul's  body 
as  a  boon. 
He  died  at  the  ninth  hour. 

Pilate.  Are  you  sure? 

Joseph.  I  saw  him,  Lord. 


48        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Pilate.  I  thought  he  would  endure 

Longer  than  that;  he  had  a  constant  mind. 

Joseph.  The  great  soul  burns  the  body  to  a 
rind. 

Pilate.  But  dead,  already;  strange.  [Calling.] 

You  in  the  court, 
Send  me  Longinus  here  with  his  report. 

A  Voice.  I  will,  my  lord. 

Pilate.  This  teacher  was  your  friend? 

Joseph.  Was,  is,  and  will  be,  till  the  great 
world  end; 
Which  God  grant  may  be  soon. 

Pilate.  I  disagree 

With  teachers  of  new  truth.    For  men  like  me 
There  is  but  one  religion,  which  is  Rome. 
No  easy  one  to  practise,  far  from  home. 
You  come  from  Ramah? 

Joseph.  Yes. 

Pilate.  What  chance  is  there 

Of  olives  being  good? 

Joseph.  They  should  be  fair. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        49 

Pilate.  You  will  not  use  Italian  presses?  No? 
Joseph.  Man  likes  his  own,  my  lord,  however 
slow; 
What  the  land  made,  we  say,  it  ought  to  use. 
Pilate.  Your  presses  waste;  oil  is  too  good 
to  lose. 
But  I  shall  not  persuade. 
Seevant.  Longinus,  Lord. 

Pilate.  Make     your      report,      centurion. 
Where's  your  sword? 
What  makes  you  come  thus  jangled?    Are  you 
ill? 
Longinus.  There  was  a  shock  of  earthquake 
up  the  hill. 
I  have  been  shaken.    I  had  meant  to  come 
Before;  but  I  was  whirled  .  .  .  was  stricken 

dumb. 
I  left  my  sword  within.  .  .  . 

Pilate.  Leave  it.    Attend. 

Is  the  man,  Jesus,  dead?   This  is  his  friend 
Who  wants  to  bury  him,  he  says  he  is. 


50        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Longinus.  Jesus  is  out  of  all  his  miseries. 
Yes,  he  is  dead,  my  lord. 

Pilate.  Already? 

Longinus.  Yes. 

The  men  who  suffer  most  endure  the  less. 
He  died  without  our  help. 

Joseph.  Then  may  I  have 

His  body,  Lord,  to  lay  it  in  the  grave? 

Pilate.  A  sentry's  there? 

Longinus.  Yes,  Lord. 

Pilate.  Have  you  a  scroll? 

[Takes  paper.]   Right.   Now  some  wax.  [TFnfes.] 

Give  into  his  control 
The  body  of  the  teacher;  see  it  laid 
Inside  the  tomb  and  see  the  doorway  made 
Secure  with  stones  and  sealed,  then  bring  me 

word. 
This  privilege  of  burial  is  conferred 
On  the  conditions  I  have  named  to  you. 
See  you  observe  them  strictly. 

Joseph.  I  will  do 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        51 

All  that  himself  would  ask  to  show  my  sense 
Of  this  last  kindness.    I  shall  go  from  hence 
Soon,  perhaps  far;  I  give  you  thanks,  my  lord. 
Now  the  last  joy  the  niggard  fates  afford; 
One  little  service  more,  and  then  an  end 
Of  that  divineness  touched  at  through  our 

friend. 

[Exit 
Pilate.  See  that  the  tomb  is  sealed  by  dark 

to-night. 
Where  were  you  hurt,  Longinus?     You  are 

white. 
What  happened  at  the  cross? 

Longinus.  We  nailed  him  there 

Aloft,  between  the  thieves,  in  the  bright  air. 
The  rabble  and  the  readers  mocked  with  oaths, 
The   hangman's    squad   were   dicing    for   his 

clothes. 
The  two  thieves  jeered  at  him.    Then  it  grew 

dark, 
Till  the  noon  sun  was  dwindled  to  a  spark, 


52        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

And  one  by  one  the  mocking  mouths  fell  still. 

We  were  alone  on  the  accursed  hill 

And  we  were  still,  not  even  the  dice  clicked, 

Only  the  heavy  blood-gouts  dropped  and  ticked 

On  to  the  stone;  the  hill  is  all  bald  stone. 

And  now  and  then  the  hangers  gave  a  groan. 

Up  in  the  dark,  three  shapes  with  arms  out- 

* 
spread. 

The  blood-drops  spat  to  show  how  slow  they 

bled. 
They  rose  up  black  against  the  ghastly  sky, 
God,  Lord,  it  is  a  slow  way  to  make  die 
A  man,  a  strong  man,  who  can  beget  men. 
Then  there  would  come  another  groan,  and  then 
One  of  those  thieves  (tough  cameleers  those 

two) 
Would  curse  the  teacher  from  lips  bitten  through 
And  the  other  bid  him  let  the  teacher  be. 
I  have  stood  much,  but  this  thing  daunted  me, 
The  dark,  the  livid  light,  and  long  long  groans 
One  on  another,  coming  from  their  bones. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        53 

And  it  got  darker  and  a  glare  began 
Like  the  sky  burning  up  above  the  man. 
The  hangman's  squad  stood  easy  on  their  spears 
And  the  air  moaned,  and  women  were  in  tears, 
While  still  between  his  groans  the  robber  cursed. 
The  sky  was  grim:  it  seemed  about  to  burst. 
Hours  had  passed :  they  seemed  like  awful  days. 
Then  .  .  .  what  was  that? 

Pilate.  What?    Where? 

Longinus.  A  kind  of  blaze, 

Fire  descending. 

Pilate.  No. 

Longinus.  I  saw  it. 

Pilate.  Yes? 

What  was  it  that  you  saw? 

Longinus.  A  fiery  tress 

Making  red  letters  all  across  the  heaven. 
Lord  Pilate,  pray  to  God  we  be  forgiven. 

Pilate.  "The  sky  was  grim,"  you  said,  there 
at  the  cross. 
What  happened  next? 


54        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Longinus.  The  towers  bent  like  moss 

Under  the  fiery  figures  from  the  sky. 
Horses  were  in  the  air,  there  came  a  cry. 
Jesus  was  calling  God:  it  struck  us  dumb. 
One  said  "He  is  calling  God.    Wait.    Will  God 

come? 
Wait."    And  we  listened  in  the  glare.    O  sir, 
He  was  God's  son,  that  man,  that  minister, 
For  as  he  called,  fire  tore  the  sky  in  two, 
The  sick  earth  shook  and  tossed  the  cross  askew, 
The  earthquake  ran  like  thunder,  the  earth's 

bones 
Broke,  the  graves  opened,  there  were  falling 
stones. 

Pilate.  I  felt  the  shock  even  here.    So? 

Longinus.  Jesus  cried 

Once  more  and  drooped,  I  saw  that  he  had  died. 

Lord,  in  the  earthquake  God  had  come  for  him. 

The  thought  of  't  shakes  me  sick,  my  eyes  are 

dim. 

Pilate.  Tell  Scirrus  to  relieve  you. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        55 

Longinus.  Lord.  .  .  . 

Pilate.  Dismiss. 

Lie  down  and  try  to  sleep;  forget  all  this. 
Tell  Scirrus  I  command  it.    Rest  to-night. 
Go  in,  Longinus,  go. 
Longinus.  Thank  you,  Lord  Pilate. 

[Exit  Longinus. 
Pilate  [alone].  No  man  can  stand  an  earth- 
quake.   Men  can  bear 
Tumults  of  water  and  of  fire  and  air, 
But  not  of  earth,  man's  grave  and  standing 

ground; 
When    that   begins    to   heave    the    will    goes 

round. 
Longinus,  too.    [Noise  below.]    Listen. 

Does  Herod  come? 
I  heard  his  fifes. 

The  doors  open.    Servants  enter. 
Servant.  Lord  Herod  is  at  hand; 

Will  it  please  your  Lordship  robe? 

Pilate.  Sprinkle  fresh  sand, 


56        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

For  blood  was  shed  to-day,  here,  under  foot. 

[He  robes.] 
Well,  that;  the  other  clasp.     [Music  off,] 
A  Voice.  Cohort.    Salute. 

Pilate.  Leave  torches  at  the  door.    Dismiss. 

[Servants  go. 
He  comes 
Welcomed  by  everyone;  the  city  hums 
With  joy  when  Herod  passes.    Ah,  not  thus 
Do  I  go  through  the  town.    They  welcome  us 
With  looks  of  hate,  with  mutterings,  curses, 
stones. 

Enter  Procula. 

Come,  stand  with  me.    Welcome  Lord  Herod 

here. 
Welcome  must  make  amends  for  barrack  cheer. 

The   Nubians   hold   torches   at   the   door, 
Herod  enters. 

Come  in,  good  welcome,  Herod. 
Procula.  Welcome,  sir. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        57 

Herod.  To  Rome,  to  Pilate,  and  to  Beauty, 
greeting; 
Give  me  your  hands.    What  joy  is  in  this  meet- 
ing. 
Pilate,  again.    You,  you  have  hurt  your  hand? 
Pilate.  It  is  nothing,  sir. 
Herod.  Beauty  has  touched  this  land, 

A  wound  has  followed. 

Procula.  What  you  please  to  call 

Beauty,  my  lord,  did  nothing  of  the  kind. 
An  earthen  vessel  tilted  with  a  wall. 
Herod.  May  it  soon  mend.     Now  let  me 
speak  my  mind. 
Pilate,  since  you  have  ruled  here,  there  have 

been 
Moments  of  .  .  .  discord,  shall  we  say?  be- 
tween 
Your  government  and  mine.    I  am  afraid 
That  I,  the  native  here,  have  seldom  made 
Efforts  for  friendship  with  you. 
Pilate.  Come. 


58        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Herod.  I  should 

Have  done  more  than  I  have,  done  all  I  could, 
Healed  the  raw  wound  between  the  land  and 

Rome, 
Helped  you  to  make  this  hellish  town  a  home, 
Not  left  it,  as  I  fear  it  has  been,  hell 
To  you  and  yours  cooped  in  a  citadel 
Above  rebellion  brewing.    For  the  past 
I  offer  deep  regret,  grief  that  will  last, 
And  shame;  your  generous  mind  leaves  me 
ashamed. 

Pilate.  Really,  my  lord. 

Procula.  These  things  must  not  be 

named. 

Pilate.  It  is  generous  of  you  to  speak  like 
this, 
But,  Herod,  hark. 

Procula.  If  things  have  been  amiss, 

The  fault  was  ours. 

Herod.  No,  the  fault  was  mine. 

Your  generous  act  this  morning  was  a  sign 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS         59 

Of  scrupulous  justice  done  to  me  by  you 
For  all  these  years,  unnoticed  hitherto, 
Unrecognized,  unthanked.    I  thank  you  now. 
Give  me  your  hand  .  .  .  so  .  .  .  thus. 

Pilate.  Herod,  I  bow 

To  what  you  say.    To  think  that  I  have  done 
Something  (I  know  not  what)  that  has  begun 
A  kindlier  bond  between  us,  touches  home. 
I  have  long  grieved  lest  I  have  injured  Rome 
By  failing  towards  yourself,  where  other  men 
Might  have  been  wiser.  .  .  .  That  is  over,  then? 
Our  differences  henceforth  may  be  discussed 
In  friendly  talk  together; 

Hekod.  So  I  trust. 

Pilate.  Give  me  your  hand;  I  have  long 
hoped  for  this. 
I  need  your  help,  and  you,  perhaps,  need  mine. 
The  tribes  are  restless  on  the  border-line, 
The  whole  land  seethes:  the  news  from  Rome 

is  bad. 
But  this  atones. 


60        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Procula.  O,  fully. 

Herod.  I  am  glad. 

Pilate.  Let  us  go  in. 

Herod.  You  lead. 

Procula.  A  moment,  one.  .  .  . 

You    named   a   generous    act    that    he    had 
done.  .  .  .  ? 

Herod.  This  morning,  yes;  you  sent  that  man 
to  me 
Because  his  crime  was  laid  in  Galilee. 
A  little  thing,  but  still  it  touched  me  close; 
It  made  me  think  how  our  disputes  arose 
When  thieves  out  of  your  province  brought  to 

me 
Were  punished  with  a  fine,  perhaps  set  free, 
Not  sent  to  you  to  judge,  as  you  sent  him. 
In  future  you  will  find  me  more  a  friend. 
Or  so  I  hope. 

Pilate.        Thanks.    May  the  gods  so  send 
That  this  may  lead  to  happier  days  for  us. 

Voices  op  the  Crowd  [who  are  now  flocking 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS         61 

in,  among  them  The  Madman].    Herod 
the  good,  Herod  the  glorious. 
Long  life  to  Herod. 
Pilate.        Come,  the  crowd  begin.  .  .  . 
Voices.  Herod  for  ever. 
Pilate.  Let  us  go  within.  .  .  . 

Herod.  Yes.    By  the  by,  what  happened  to 
the  man? 
I  sent  him  back  to  you;  a  rumor  ran 
That  he  was  crucified. 
Pilate.  He  was. 

Herod.  The  priests 

Rage  upon  points  of  doctrine  at  the  feasts. 
Voices.   God  bless  you,   Herod;  give  you 

length  of  days,  Herod. 
Herod  [to  the  Crowd].  Go  home.    To  God 
alone  give  praise. 
This  is  Deliverance  Night;  go  home,  for  soon 
Over  the  dusty  hill  will  come  the  moon, 
And  you  must  feast,  with  prayer  to  the  Adored. 
[To  Pilate.]  He  well  deserved  his  death. 


62        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Voices.  God  bless  you,  Lord. 

Pilate.  I'll  lead  the  way.  .  .  . 
Voices.  Herod. 

Herod  [to  Procula].  Lady,  your  hand. 

Procula.  There  is  a  just  man's  blood  upon 
the  sand. 
Mind  how  you  tread. 

They   go   in.      The   bronze   doors   are 
closed.     The  Crowd  remains  for  an  in- 
stant watching  the  doors. 
A  Voice.  Herod  the  Fox  makes  friends  with 

Pilate.    Why? 
A  Voice.  He  needs  a  Roman  loan. 
A  Voice.  Look  at  the  sky, 

The  Paschal  moon  has  risen. 

A  Voice.  God  is  great. 

Why  did  I  linger  here?    I  shall  be  late.  [Going.] 
A  Voice.  Good  night  and  blessing. 
A  Voice  [going].  Pilate's  color  changed 

When  we  cheered  Herod. 
A  Voice.  They  have  been  estranged 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        63 

A  long  while  now;  but  now  they  will  be  friends. 
[Going.] 
A  Voice.  What  joy  it  is  when  Preparation 
ends. 
Now  to  our  Feast.    Do  you  go  down  the  stair? 
A  Voice.  Yes,  past  the  pools;  will  you  come 

with  me  there? 
A  Voice.  I  love  to  walk  by  moonlight;  let 

us  go.    [They  go.] 
A  Voice  [singing].  Friends,   out  of  Egypt, 
long  ago, 
Our  wandering  fathers  came, 
Treading  the  paths  that  God  did  show 
By  pointing  cloud  and  flame. 
By  land  and  sea  His  darkness  and  His  light 
Led  us  into  His  peace.  .  .  .     [The  voice  dies 
away.] 
A  Voice  [off].  Good-night. 

Only  The  Madman  remains.  He  takes 
lilies  from  a  box  and  begins  to  tie  them  in 
bunches. 


64        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Madman.  Only  a  penny,  a  penny, 
Lilies  brighter  than  any, 
Lilies  whiter  than  snow.     [He  feels  that  he  is 

alone.] 
Beautiful  lilies  grow 
Wherever,  the  truth  so  sweet 
Has  trodden  with  bloody  feet, 
Has  stood  with  a  bloody  brow. 
Friend,  it  is  over  now, 
The  passion,  the  sweat,  the  pains, 
Only  the  truth  remains.    [He  lays  lilies  down.} 
****** 

I  cannot  see  what  others  see; 
Wisdom  alone  is  kind  to  me, 
Wisdom  that  comes  from  Agony. 

****** 

Wisdom  that  lives  in  the  pure  skies, 
The  untouched  star,  the  spirit's  eyes; 
O  Beauty,  touch  me,  make  me  wise. 

Curtain. 


SONNETS 


NOTE 

Some  few  of  these  sonnets  appeared  serially 
in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Scribner's  Magazine, 
Harper's  Monthly,  and  (perhaps)  in  one  or  two 
other  papers.  I  thank  the  Editors  of  these 
papers  for  permission  to  reprint  them  here. 

JOHN  MASEFIELD. 

London,  16th  Dec.  1915. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        67 


Long  long  ago,  when  all  the  glittering  earth 
Was  heaven  itself,  when  drunkards  in  the  street 
Were  like  mazed  kings  shaking  at  giving  birth 
To  acts  of  war  that  sickle  men  like  wheat, 
When  the  white  clover  opened  Paradise 
And  God  lived  in  a  cottage  up  the  brook, 
Beauty,  you  lifted  up  my  sleeping  eyes 
And  filled  my  heart  with  longing  with  a  look; 
And  all  the  day  I  searched  but  could  not  find 
The  beautiful  dark-eyed  who  touched  me  there, 
Delight  in  her  made  trouble  in  my  mind, 
She  was  within  all  Nature,  everywhere, 
The  breath  I  breathed,  the  brook,  the  flower, 

the  grass, 
Were  her,  her  word,  her  beauty,  all  she  was. 


68        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Night  came  again,  but  now  I  could  not  sleep. 
The  owls  were  watching  in  the  yew,  the  mice 
Gnawed  at  the  wainscot;  the  mid  dark  was 

deep, 
The    death-watch    knocked    the    dead    man's 

summons  thrice. 
The  cats  upon  the  pointed  housetops  peered 
About  the  chimneys,  with  lit  eyes  which  saw 
Things  in  the  darkness,  moving,  which  they 

feared. 
The  midnight  filled  the  quiet  house  with  awe. 
So,  creeping  down  the  stair,  I  drew  the  bolt 
And  passed  into  the  darkness,  and  I  knew 
That  Beauty  was  brought  near  by  my  revolt. 
Beauty  was  in  the  moonlight,  in  the  dew, 
But  more  within  myself  whose  venturous  tread 
Walked  the  dark  house  where  death  ticks  called 

the  dead. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        69 


Even  after  all  these  years  there  comes  the  dream 
Of  lovelier  life  than  this  in  some  new  earth, 
In  the  full  summer  of  that  unearthly  gleam 
Which  lights  the  spirit  when  the  brain  gives 

birth, 
Of  a  perfected  I,  in  happy  hours, 
Treading  above  the  sea  that  trembles  there, 
A  path  through  thickets  of  immortal  flowers 
That  only  grow  where  sorrows  never  were. 
And,  at  a  turn,  of  coming  face  to  face 
With  Beauty's  self,  that  Beauty  I  have  sought 
In  women's  hearts,  in  friends,  in  many  a  place, 
In  barren  hours  passed  at  grips  with  thought, 
Beauty  of  woman,  comrade,  earth  and  sea, 
Incarnate  thought  come  face  to  face  with  me. 


70        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


If  I  could  come  again  to  that  dear  place 
Where  once  I  came,  where  Beauty  lived  and 

moved, 
Where,  by  the  sea,  I  saw  her  face  to  face, 
That  soul  alive  by  which  the  world  has  loved ; 
If,  as  I  stood  at  gaze  among  the  leaves, 
She  would  appear  again,  as  once  before, 
While  the  red  herdsman  gathered  up  his  sheaves 
And  brimming  waters  trembled  up  the  shore; 
If,  as  I  gazed,  her  Beauty  that  was  dumb, 
In  that  old  time,  before  I  learned  to  speak, 
Would  lean  to  me  and  revelation  come, 
Words  to  the  lips  and  color  to  the  cheek, 
Joy  with  its  searing-iron  would  burn  me  wise, 
I  should  know  all;  all  powers,  all  mysteries. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        71 


Men  are  made  human  by  the  mighty  fall 

The  mighty  passion  led  to,  these  remain. 

The  despot,  at  the  last  assaulted  wall, 

By  long  disaster  is  made  man  again, 

The  faithful  fool  who  follows  the  torn  flag, 

The  woman  marching  by  the  beaten  man, 

Make  with  their  truth  atonement  for  the  brag, 

And  earn  a  pity  for  the  too  proud  plan. 

For  in  disaster,  in  the  ruined  will, 

In  the  soiled  shreds  of  what  the  brain  conceived, 

Something  above  the  wreck  is  steady  still, 

Bright  above  all  that  cannot  be  retrieved, 

Grandeur  of  soul,  a  touching  of  the  star 

That  good  days  cover  but  by  which  we  are. 


72        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Here  in  the  self  is  all  that  man  can  know 
Of  Beauty,  all  the  wonder,  all  the  power, 
All  the  unearthly  color,  all  the  glow, 
Here  in  the  self  which  withers  like  a  flower; 
Here  in  the  self  which  fades  as  hours  pass, 
And  droops  and  dies  and  rots  and  is  forgotten, 
Sooner,  by  ages,  than  the  mirroring  glass 
In  which  it  sees  its  glory  still  unrotten. 
Here  in  the  flesh,  within  the  flesh,  behind, 
Swift  in  the  blood  and  throbbing  on  the  bone, 
Beauty  herself,  the  universal  mind, 
Eternal  April  wandering  alone, 
The  god,  the  holy  ghost,  the  atoning  lord, 
Here  in  the  flesh,  the  never  yet  explored. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        73 


Flesh,  I  have  knocked  at  many  a  dusty  door, 
Gone  down  full  many  a  windy  midnight  lane, 
Probed  in  old  walls  and  felt  along  the  floor, 
Pressed  in  blind  hope  the  lighted  window-pane. 
But  useless  all,  though  sometimes,  when  the 

moon 
Was  full  in  heaven  and  the  sea  was  full, 
Along  my  body's  alleys  came  a  tune 
Played  in  the  tavern  by  the  Beautiful. 
Then  for  an  instant  I  have  felt  at  point 
To  find  and  seize  her,  whosoe'er  she  be, 
Whether  some  saint  whose  glory  does  anoint 
Those  whom  she  loves,  or  but  a  part  of  me, 
Or  something  that  the  things  not  understood 
Make  for  their  uses  out  of  flesh  and  blood. 


74        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


But  all  has  passed,  the  tune  has  died  away, 
The  glamour  gone,  the  glory;  is  it  chance? 
Is  the  unfeeling  mud  stabbed  by  a  ray 
Cast  by  an  unseen  splendor's  great  advance? 
Or  does  the  glory  gather  crumb  by  crumb 
Unseen,  within,  as  coral  islands  rise, 
Till  suddenly  the  apparitions  come 
Above  the  surface,  looking  at  the  skies? 
Or  does  sweet  Beauty  dwell  in  lovely  things, 
Scattering  the  holy  hintings  of  her  name 
In  women,  in  dear  friends,  in  flowers,  in  springs, 
In  the  brook's  voice,  for  us  to  catch  the  same? 
Or  is  it  we  who  are  Beauty,  we  who  ask, 
We  by  whose  gleams  the  world  fulfils  its  task? 


GOOD  FRIDA  Y  AND  OTHER  P0EQ1S        75 


These  myriad  days,  these  many  thousand  hours, 
A  man's  long  life,  so  choked  with  dusty  things, 
How  little  perfect  poise  with  perfect  powers, 
Joy  at  the  heart  and  Beauty  at  the  springs. 
One  hour,  or  two,  or  three,  in  long  years  scat- 
tered, 
Sparks  from  a  smithy  that  have  fired  a  thatch, 
Are  all  that  life  has  given  and  all  that  mattered, 
The  rest,  all  heaving  at  a  moveless  latch. 
For  these,  so  many  years  of  useless  toil, 
Despair,  endeavor,  and  again  despair, 
Sweat,  that  the  base  machine  may  have  its  oil, 
Idle  delight  to  tempt  one  everywhere. 
A  life  upon  the  cross.    To  make  amends 
Three  flaming  memories  that  the  deathbed  ends. 


76        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


There,  on  the  darkened  deathbed,  dies  the 

brain 
That  flared  three  several  times  in  seventy  years; 
It  cannot  lift  the  silly  hand  again, 
Nor  speak,  nor  sing,  it  neither  sees  nor  hears. 
And  muffled  mourners  put  it  in  the  ground 
And  then  go  home,  and  in  the  earth  it  lies, 
Too  dark  for  vision  and  too  deep  for  sound, 
The  million  cells  that  made  a  good  man  wise. 
Yet  for  a  few  short  years  an  influence  stirs 
A  sense  or  wraith  or  essence  of  him  dead, 
Which  makes  insensate  things  its  ministers 
To  those  beloved,  his  spirit's  daily  bread; 
Then  that,  too,  fades;  in  book  or  deed  a  spark 
Lingers,  then  that,  too,  fades;  then  all  is  dark. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        77 


So  in  the  empty  sky  the  stars  appear, 
Are  bright  in  heaven  marching  through  the  sky, 
Spinning  their  planets,  each  one  to  his  year, 
Tossing  their  fiery  hair  until  they  die; 
Then  in  the  tower  afar  the  watcher  sees 
The  sun,  that  burned,  less  noble  than  it  was, 
Less  noble  still,  until  by  dim  degrees, 
No  spark  of  him  is  specklike  in  his  glass. 
Then  blind  and  dark  in  heaven  the  sun  proceeds, 
Vast,  dead  and  hideous,  knocking  on  his  moons, 
Till  crashing  on  his  like  creation  breeds, 
Striking  such  life  a  constellation  swoons. 
From  dead  things  striking  fire  a  new  sun  springs, 
New  fire,  new  fife,  new  planets  with  new  wings. 


78        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


It  may  be  so  with  us,  that  in  the  dark, 

When  we  have  done  with  Time  and  wander 

Space, 
Some  meeting  of  the  blind  may  strike  a  spark, 
And  to  Deaths  empty  mansion  give  a  grace. 
It  may  be,  that  the  loosened  soul  may  find 
Some  new  delight  of  living  without  limbs, 
Bodiless  joy  of  flesh-untrammelled  mind, 
Peace  like  a  sky  where  starlike  spirit  swims. 
It  may  be,  that  the  million  cells  of  sense, 
Loosed  from  their  seventy  years'  adhesion,  pass 
Each  to  some  joy  of  changed  experience, 
Weight  in  the  earth  or  glory  in  the  grass; 
It  may  be  that  we  cease;  we  cannot  tell. 
Even  if  we  cease  life  is  a  miracle. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        79 


Man  has  his  unseen  friend,  his  unseen  twin, 
His  straitened  spirit's  possibility, 
The  palace  unexplored  he  thinks  an  inn, 
The  glorious  garden  which  he  wanders  by. 
It  is  beside  us  while  we  clutch  at  clay 
To  daub  ourselves  that  we  may  never  see. 
Like  the  lame  donkey  lured  by  moving  hay 
We  chase  the  shade  but  let  the  real  be. 
Yet,  when  confusion  in  our  heaven  brings  stress, 
We  thrust  on  that  unseen,  get  stature  from  it, 
Cast  to  the  devil's  challenge  the  man's  yes, 
And  stream  our  fiery  hour  like  a  comet, 
And  know  for  that  fierce  hour  a  friend  behind, 
With  sword  and  shield,  the  second  to  the  mind. 


80        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


What  am  I,  Life?   A  thing  of  watery  salt 

Held  in  cohesion  by  unresting  cells, 

Which  work  they  know  not  why,  which  never 

halt, 
Myself  unwitting  where  their  Master  dwells. 
I  do  not  bid  them,  yet  they  toil,  they  spin; 
A  world  which  uses  me  as  I  use  them, 
Nor  do  I  know  which  end  or  which  begin 
Nor  which  to  praise,  which  pamper,  which  con- 
demn. 
So,  like  a  marvel  in  a  marvel  set, 
I  answer  to  the  vast,  as  wave  by  wave 
The  sea  of  air  goes  over,  dry  or  wet, 
Or  the  full  moon  comes  swimming  from  her 

cave, 
Or  the  great  sun  comes  north,  this  myriad  I 
Tingles,  not  knowing  how,  yet  wondering  why. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        81 


If  I  could  get  within  this  changing  I, 
This  ever  altering  thing  which  yet  persists, 
Keeping  the  features  it  is  reckoned  by, 
While  each  component  atom  breaks  or  twists, 
If,  wandering  past  strange  groups  of  shifting 

forms, 
Cells  at  their  hidden  marvels  hard  at  work, 
Pale  from  much  toil,  or  red  from  sudden  storms, 
I  might  attain  to  where  the  Rulers  lurk. 
If,  pressing  past  the  guards  in  those  grey  gates, 
The  brakes  most  folded  intertwisted  shell, 
I  might  attain  to  that  which  alters  fates, 
The  King,  the  supreme  self,  the  Master  Cell, 
Then,  on  Man's  earthly  peak,  I  might  behold 
The  unearthly  self  beyond,  unguessed,  untold. 


82        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


What  is  this  atom  which  contains  the  whole, 
This  miracle  which  needs  adjuncts  so  strange, 
This,  which  imagined  God  and  is  the  soul, 
The  steady  star  persisting  amid  change? 
What  waste,   that   smallness  of  such  power 

should  need 
Such  clumsy  tools  so  easy  to  destroy, 
Such  wasteful  servants  difficult  to  feed, 
Such  indirect  dark  avenues  to  joy. 
Why,  if  its  business  is  not  mainly  earth, 
Should  it  demand  such  heavy  chains  to  sense? 
A  heavenly  thing  demands  a  swifter  birth, 
A  quicker  hand  to  act  intelligence. 
An  earthly  thing  were  better  like  the  rose 
At  peace  with  clay  from  which  its  beauty 

grows. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        83 


Ah,  we  are  neither  heaven  nor  earth,  but  men ; 
Something  that  uses  and  despises  both, 
That  takes  its  earth's  contentment  in  the  pen, 
Then  sees  the  world's  injustice  and  is  wroth, 
And  flinging  off  youth's  happy  promise,  flies 
Up  to  some  breach,  despising  earthly  things, 
And,  in  contempt  of  hell  and  heaven,  dies, 
Rather  than  bear  some  yoke  of  priests  or  kings. 
Our  joys  are  not  of  heaven  nor  earth,  but  man's, 
A  woman's  beauty  or  a  child's  delight, 
The  trembling  blood  when  the  discoverer  scans 
The  sought-for  world,  the  guessed-at  satellite; 
The  ringing  scene,  the  stone  at  point  to  blush 
For  unborn  men  to  look  at  and  say  "Hush." 


84        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Roses  are  beauty,  but  I  never  see 

Those  blood  drops  from  the  burning  heart  of 

June 
Glowing  like  thought  upon  the  living  tree, 
Without  a  pity  that  they  die  so  soon, 
Die  into  petals,  like  those  roses  old, 
Those  women,  who  were  summer  in  men's 

hearts 
Before  the  smile  upon  the  Sphinx  was  cold, 
Or  sand  had  hid  the  Syrian  and  his  arts. 
O  myriad  dust  of  beauty  that  lies  thick 
Under  our  feet  that  not  a  single  grain 
But  stirred  and  moved  in  beauty  and  was  quick 
For  one  brief  moon  and  died  nor  lived  again; 
But  when  the  moon  rose  lay  upon  the  grass 
Pasture  to  living  beauty,  life  that  was. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        86 


Over  the  church's  door  they  moved  a  stone 
And  there,  unguessed,  forgotten,  mortared  up, 
Lay  the  priest's  cell  where  he  had  lived  alone; 
There  was  his  ashy  hearth,  his  drinking  cup; 
There  was  the  window  whence  he  saw  the  host, 
The  god  whose  beauty  quickened  bread  and 

wine, 
The  skeleton  of  a  religion  lost, 
The  ghostless  bones  of  what  had  been  divine. 
O  many  a  time  the  dusty  masons  come, 
Knocking  their  trowels  in  the  stony  brain, 
To  cells  where  perished  priests  had  once  a  home, 
Or  where  devout  brows  pressed  the  window  pane, 
Watching  the  thing  made  God,  the  god  whose 

bones 
Bind  underground  our  soul's  foundation  stones. 


86        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


I  never  see  the  red  rose  crown  the  year, 
Nor  feel  the  young  grass  underneath  my  tread, 
Without  the  thought  "This  living  beauty  here 
Is  earth's  remembrance  of  a  beauty  dead. 
Surely  where  all  this  glory  is  displayed 
Love  has  been  quick,  like  fire,  to  high  ends, 
Here,  in  this  grass,  an  altar  has  been  made 
For  some  white  joy,  some  sacrifice  of  friends; 
Here,  where  I  stand,  some   leap  of  human 

brains 
Has  touched  immortal  things  and  left  its  trace, 
The  earth  is  happy  here,  the  gleam  remains; 
Beauty  is  here,  the  spirit  of  the  place, 
I  touch  the  faith  which  nothing  can  destroy, 
The  earth,  the  living  church  of  ancient  joy." 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        87 


Out  of  the  clouds  come  torrents,  from  the  earth 
Fire  and  quakings,  from  the  shrieking  air 
Tempests  that  harry  half  the  planet's  girth. 
Death's    unseen    seeds    are    scattered    every- 
where. 
Yet  in  his  iron  cage  the  mind  of  man 
Measures  and  braves  the  terrors  of  all  these, 
The  blindest  fury  and  the  subtlest  plan 
He  turns,  or  tames,  or  shows  in  their  degrees. 
Yet  in  himself  are  forces  of  like  power, 
Untamed,  unreckoned ;  seeds  that  brain  to  brain 
Pass  across  oceans  bringing  thought  to  flower, 
New  worlds,  new  selves,  where  he  can  live  again, 
Eternal  beauty's  everlasting  rose 
Which  casts  this  world  as  shadow  as  it  goes. 


88        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


O  little  self,  within  whose  smallness  lies 
All  that  man  was,  and  is,  and  will  become, 
Atom  unseen  that  comprehends  the  skies 
And  tells  the  tracks  by  which  the  planets  roam. 
That,    without   moving,    knows    the   joys   of 

wings, 
The  tiger's  strength,  the  eagle's  secrecy, 
And  in  the  hovel  can  consort  with  kings, 
Or  clothe  a  god  with  his  own  mystery. 
O  with  what  darkness  do  we  cloak  thy  light, 
What  dusty  folly  gather  thee  for  food, 
Thou  who  alone  art  knowledge  and  delight, 
The  heavenly  bread,  the  beautiful,  the  good. 
0  living  self,  O  god,  O  morning  star, 
Give  us  thy  light,  forgive  us  what  we  are. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        89 

I  went  into  the  fields,  but  you  were  there 

Waiting  for  me,  so  all  the  summer  flowers 

Were  only  glimpses  of  your  starry  powers, 

Beautiful  and  inspired  dust  they  were. 

I  went  down  by  the  waters,  and  a  bird 

Sang  with  your  voice  in  all  the  unknown  tones 

Of  all  that  self  of  you  I  have  not  heard, 

So  that  my  being  felt  you  to  the  bones. 

I  went  into  my  house,  and  shut  the  door 

To  be  alone,  but  you  were  there  with  me; 

All  beauty  in  a  little  room  may  be 

Though  the  roof  lean  and  muddy  be  the  floor. 

Then  in  my  bed  I  bound  my  tired  eyes 

To  make  a  darkness  for  my  weary  brain, 

But  like  a  presence  you  were  there  again, 

Being  and  real,  beautiful  and  wise, 

So  that  I  could  not  sleep  and  cried  aloud, 

"You  strange  grave  thing,  what  is  it  you  would 

say?" 
The  redness  of  your  dear  lips  dimmed  to  grey, 
The  waters  ebbed,  the  moon  hid  in  a  cloud. 


90        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


There  are  two  forms  of  life,  of  which  one  moves, 
Seeking  its  meat  in  many  forms  of  Death, 
On  scales,  on  wings,  on  all  the  myriad  hooves 
Which  stamp  earth's  exultation  in  quick  breath. 
It  rustles  through  the  reeds  in  shivering  fowl, 
Cries  over  moors  in  curlew,  glitters  green 
In  the  lynx'  eye,  is  fearful  in  the  howl 
Of  winter-bitten  wolves  whose  flanks  are  lean. 
It  takes  dumb  joy  in  cattle,  it  is  fierce, 
It  torts  the  tiger's  loin,  the  eagle's  wings, 
Its  tools  are  claws  to  smite  and  teeth  to  pierce, 
Arms  to  destroy,  and  coils,  and  poison  stings; 
Wherever  earth  is  quick  and  life  runs  red 
Its  mark  is  death,  its  meat  is  something  dead. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        91 


Restless  and  hungry,  still  it  moves  and  slays 

Feeding  its  beauty  on  dead  beauty's  bones, 

Most  merciless  in  all  its  million  ways, 

Its  breath  for  singing  bought  by  dying  groans, 

Roving  so  far  with  such  a  zest  to  kill 

(Its  strongness  adding  hunger)  that  at  last 

Its  cells  attain  beyond  the  cruel  skill 

To  where  life's  earliest  impulses  are  past. 

Then  this  creation  of  the  linked  lusts, 

To  move  and  eat,  still  under  their  control, 

Hunts  for  his  prey  in  thought,  his  thinking 

thrusts 
Through  the  untrodden  jungle  of  the  soul, 
Through    slip    and    quag,    morasses   dripping 

green, 
Seeking  the  thing  supposed  but  never  seen. 


92        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


How  many  ways,  how  many  different  times 
The  tiger  Mind  has  clutched  at  what  it  sought, 
Only  to  prove  supposed  virtues  crimes, 
The  imagined  godhead  but  a  form  of  thought. 
How  many  restless  brains  have  wrought  and 

schemed, 
Padding  their  cage,  or  built,  or  brought  to  law, 
Made  in  outlasting  brass  the  something  dreamed, 
Only  to  prove  themselves  the  things  of  awe, 
Yet,  in  the  happy  moment's  lightning  blink, 
Comes  scent,  or  track,  or  trace,  the  game  goes 

by, 

Some  leopard  thought  is  pawing  at  the  brink, 
Chaos  below,  and,  up  above,  the  sky. 
Then  the  keen  nostrils  scent,  about,  about, 
To  prove  the  Thing  Within  a  Thing  Without. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        93 


The  other  form  of  Living  does  not  stir; 
Where  the  seed  chances  there  it  roots  and  grows, 
To  suck  what  makes  the  lily  or  the  fir 
Out  of  the  earth  and  from  the  air  that  blows. 
Great  power  of  Will  that  little  thing  the  seed 
Has,  all  alone  in  earth,  to  plan  the  tree, 
And,  though  the  mud  oppresses,  to  succeed, 
And  put  out  branches  where  the  birds  may  be. 
Then  the  wind  blows  it,  but  the  bending  boughs 
Exult  like  billows,  and  their  million  green 
Drink  the  all-living  sunlight  in  carouse, 
Like  dainty  harts  where  forest  wells  are  clean. 
While  it,  the  central  plant,  which  looks  o'er 

miles, 
Draws  milk  from  the  earth's  breast,  and  sways, 

and  smiles. 


94        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Is  there  a  great  green  commonwealth  of  Thought 
Which  ranks  the  yearly  pageant,  and  decides 
How  Summer's  royal  progress  shall  be  wrought, 
By  secret  stir  which  in  each  plant  abides? 
Does  rocking  daffodil  consent  that  she, 
The  snowdrop  of  wet  winters,  shall  be  first? 
Does  spotted  cowslip  with  the  grass  agree 
To  hold  her  pride  before  the  rattle  burst? 
And  in  the  hedge  what  quick  agreement  goes, 
When  hawthorn  blossoms  redden  to  decay, 
That  Summer's  pride  shall  come,  the  Summer's 

rose, 
Before  the  flower  be  on  the  bramble  spray? 
Or  is  it,  as  with  us,  unresting  strife, 
And  each  consent  a  lucky  gasp  for  life? 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        95 

Beauty,  let  be;  I  cannot  see  your  face, 
I  shall  not  know  you  now,  nor  touch  your  feet, 
Only  within  me  tremble  to  your  grace 
Tasting  this  crumb  vouchsafed  which  is  so 

sweet. 
Even  when  the  full-leaved  Summer  bore  no 

fruit, 
You  give  me  this,  this  apple  of  man's  tree; 
This  planet  sings  when  other  spheres  were  mute, 
This  light  begins  when  darkness  covered  me. 
Now,  though  I  know  that  I  shall  never  know 
All,  through  my  fault,  nor  blazon  with  my  pen 
That  path  prepared  where  only  I  could  go, 
Still,  I  have  this,  not  given  to  other  men. 
Beauty,    this   grace,    this   spring,    this   given 

bread, 
This  life,  this  dawn,  this  wakening  from  the 

dead. 


96        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Here,  where  we  stood  together,  we  three  men, 
Before  the  war  had  swept  us  to  the  East 
Three  thousand  miles  away,  I  stand  again 
And  hear  the  bells,  and  breathe,  and  go  to  feast. 
We  trod  the  same  path,  to  the  self-same  place, 
Yet  here  I  stand,  having  beheld  their  graves, 
Skyros  whose  shadows  the  great  seas  erase, 
And  Seddul  Bahr  that  ever  more  blood  craves. 
So,  since  we  communed  here,  our  bones  have 

been 
Nearer,  perhaps,  than  they  again  will  be, 
Earth  and  the  world-wide  battle  lie  between, 
Death  lies  between,  and  friend-destroying  sea. 
Yet  here,  a  year  ago,  we  talked  and  stood 
As  I  stand  now,  with  pulses  beating  blood. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        97 


I  saw  her  like  a  shadow  on  the  sky 

In  the  last  light,  a  blur  upon  the  sea, 

Then  the  gale's  darkness  put  the  shadow  by, 

But  from  one  grave  that  island  talked  to  me; 

And,  in  the  midnight,  in  the  breaking  storm, 

I  saw  its  blackness  and  a  blinking  light, 

And  thought,  "So  death  obscures  your  gentle 

form, 
So  memory  strives  to  make  the  darkness  bright ; 
And,  in  that  heap  of  rocks,  your  body  lies, 
Part  of  the  island  till  the  planet  ends, 
My  gentle  comrade,  beautiful  and  wise, 
Part  of  this  crag  this  bitter  surge  offends, 
While  I,  who  pass,  a  little  obscure  thing, 
War  with  this  force,  and  breathe,  and  am  its 

king." 


98        GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Not  that  the  stars  are  all  gone  mad  in  heaven 
Plucking  the  unseen  reins  upon  men's  souls, 
Not  that  the  law  that  bound  the  planets  seven 
Is  discord  now;  man  probes  for  new  controls. 
He  bends  no  longer  to  the  circling  stars, 
New  moon  and  full  moon  and  the  living  sun, 
Love-making  Venus,  Jove  and  bloody  Mars 
Pass  from  their  thrones,  their  rule  of  him  is 

done. 
And  paler  gods,  made  liker  men,  are  past, 
Like  their  sick  eras  to  their  funeral  urns, 
They  cannot  stand  the  fire  blown  by  the  blast 
In  which  man's  soul  that  measures  heaven  burns. 
Man  in  his  cage  of  many  millioned  pain 
Burns  all  to  ash  to  prove  if  God  remain. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS        99 


There  is  no  God,  as  I  was  taught  in  youth, 
Though  each,  according  to  his  stature,  builds 
Some  covered  shrine  for  what  he  thinks  the 

truth, 
Which  day  by  day  his  reddest  heart-blood  gilds. 
There  is  no  God;  but  death,  the  clasping  sea, 
In  which  we  move  like  fish,  deep  over  deep 
Made  of  men's  souls  that  bodies  have  set  free, 
Floods  to  a  Justice  though  it  seems  asleep. 
There  is  no  God,  but  still,  behind  the  veil, 
The  hurt  thing  works,  out  of  its  agony. 
Still,  like  a  touching  of  a  brimming  Grail, 
Return  the  pennies  given  to  passers  by. 
There  is  no  God,  but  we,  who  breathe  the  air, 
Are  God  ourselves  and  touch  God  everywhere. 


100      GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Beauty  retires;  the  blood  out  of  the  earth 
Shrinks,  the  stalk  dries,  lifeless  November  still 
Drops  the  brown  husk  of  April's  greenest  birth. 
Through  the  thinned  beech  clump  I  can  see 

the  hill. 
So  withers  man,  and  though  his  life  renews 
In  Aprils  of  the  soul,  an  autumn  comes 
Which  gives  an  end,  not  respite,  to  the  thews 
That  bore  his  soul  through  the  world's  martyr- 
doms. 
Then  all  the  beauty  will  be  out  of  mind, 
Part  of  man's  store,  that  lies  outside  his  brain, 
Touch  to  the  dead  and  vision  to  the  blind, 
Drink  in  the  desert,  bread,  eternal  grain; 
Part  of  the  untilled  field  that  beauty  sows 
With  flowers  untold,  where  quickened  spirit 
goes. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS      101 


Wherever  beauty  has  been  quick  in  clay 
Some  effluence  of  it  lives,  a  spirit  dwells, 
Beauty  that  death  can  never  take  away, 
Mixed  with  the  air  that  shakes  the  flower  bells; 
So  that  by  waters  where  the  apples  fall, 
Or  in  lone  glens,  or  valleys  full  of  flowers, 
Or  in  the  streets  where  bloody  tidings  call, 
The  haunting  waits  the  mood  that  makes  it 

ours. 
Then  at  a  turn,  a  word,  an  act,  a  thought, 
Such  difference  comes,  the  spirit  apprehends 
That  place's  glory,  for  where  beauty  fought 
Under  the  veil  the  glory  never  ends, 
But  the  still  grass,  the  leaves,  the  trembling 

flower, 
Keep,  through  dead  time,  that  everlasting  hour. 


102      GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


You  are  more  beautiful  than  women  are, 
Wiser  than  men,  stronger  than  ribbed  death, 
Juster  than  Time,  more  constant  than  the  star, 
Dearer  than  love,  more  intimate  than  breath; 
Having  all  art,  all  science,  all  control 
Over  the  still  unsmithied,  even  as  Time 
Cradles  the  generations  of  man's  soul, 
You  are  the  light  to  guide,  the  way  to  climb. 
So,  having  followed  beauty,  having  bowed 
To  wisdom  and  to  death,  to  law,  to  power, 
I  like  a  blind  man  stumble  from  the  crowd 
Into  the  darkness  of  a  deeper  hour, 
Where  in  the  lonely  silence  I  may  wait 
The  prayed-for  gleam — your  hand  upon  the 
gate. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS      103 

Out  of  the  barracks  to  the  castle  yard 

Those  Roman  soldiers  came,  buckling  their  gear; 

The  word  was  passed  that  they  were  prison 

guard; 
The  sergeant  proved  their  dressing  with  his 

spear. 
Then,  as  the  prisoner  came,  a  wretch  who  bled 
Holding  a  cross,  those  nearest  cursed  his  soul: 
He  might  have  died  some  other  time,  they  said, 
Not  at  high  noon:  the  sergeant  called  the  roll. 
Then,  sloping  spears,  the  files  passed  from  the 

court 
Into  the  alleys,  thrusting  back  the  crowd, 
They  cursed  the  bleeding  man  for  stepping 

short; 
The  drums  beat  time:  the  sergeant  hummed 

aloud; 
The  rabble  closed  behind :  the  soldiers  cursed 
The  prisoner's  soul,  the  flies,  their  packs,  their 

thirst. 


104      GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Not  for  the  anguish  suffered  is  the  slur, 
Not  for  the  women's  mocks,  the  taunts  of  men, 
No,  but  because  you  never  welcomed  her, 
Her  of  whose  beauty  I  am  only  the  pen. 
There  was  a  dog,  dog-minded,  with  dog's  eyes, 
Damned  by  a  dog's  brute-nature  to  be  true, 
Something  within  her  made  his  spirit  wise, 
He  licked  her  hand,  he  knew  her,  not  so  you. 
When  all  adulterate  beauty  has  gone  by, 
When  all  inanimate  matter  has  gone  down, 
We  will  arise  and  walk,  that  dog  and  I, 
The  only  two  who  knew  her  in  the  town, 
We'll  range  the  pleasant  mountains  side  by 

side, 
Seeking  the  blood-stained  flowers  where  Christs 

have  died. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS      105 

Beauty  was  with  me  once,  but  now,  grown  old, 

I  cannot  hear  nor  see  her:  thus  a  king 

In  the  high  turret  kept  him  from  the  cold 

Over  the  fire,  with  his  magic  ring 

Which,  as  he  wrought,  made  pictures  come  and 

go 
Of  men  and  times,  past,  present,  and  to  be, 
Now  like  a  smoke,  now  flame-like,  now  a  glow, 
Now  dead,  now  bright,  but  always  fantasy. 
While,  on  the  stair  without,  a  faithful  slave 
Stabbed  to  the  death,  crawled  bleeding,  whisper- 
ing "  Sir, 
They  come  to  kill  you,  fly:  I  come  to  save; 
O  you  great  gods,  have  pity,  let  him  hear." 
Then,  with  his  last  strength  tapped  and  mut- 
tered, "Sire," 
While  the  king  smiled  and  drowsed  above  the 
fire. 


106      GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


So  beauty  comes,  so  with  a  failing  hand 

She  knocks  and  cries,  and  fails  to  make  me  hear, 

She  who  tells  futures  in  the  falling  sand 

And  still,  by  signs,  makes  hidden  meanings  clear ; 

She,  who  behind  this  many  peopled  smoke, 

Moves  in  the  light  and  struggles  to  direct, 

Through  the  deaf  ear  and  by  the  baffled  stroke, 

The  wicked  man,  the  honored  architect. 

Yet  at  a  dawn  before  the  birds  begin, 

In  dreams,  as  the  horse  stamps  and  the  hound 

stirs, 
Sleep  slips  the  bolt  and  beauty  enters  in 
Crying  aloud  those  hurried  words  of  hers, 
And  I  awake  and,  in  the  birded  dawn, 
Know  her  for  Queen  and  own  myself  a  pawn. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS      107 


If  Beauty  be  at  all,  if,  beyond  sense, 
There  be  a  wisdom  piercing  into  brains, 
Why  should  the  glory  wait  on  impotence, 
Biding  its  time  till  blood  is  in  the  veins? 
There  is  no  beauty,  but,  when  thought  is  quick, 
Out  of  the  noisy  sickroom  of  ourselves, 
Some  flattery  comes  to  try  to  cheat  the  sick, 
Some  drowsy  drug  is  groped  for  on  the  shelves. 
And,  for  the  rest,  we  play  upon  a  scene 
Beautiful  with  the  blood  of  living  things; 
We  move  and  speak  and  wonder  and  have  been, 
Upon  the  dust  as  dust,  not  queens  and  kings; 
We  know  no  beauty,  nor  does  beauty  care 
For  us,  this  dust,  that  men  make  everywhere. 


108      GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Each  greedy  self,  by  consecrating  lust, 
Desire  pricking  into  sacrifice, 
Adds,  in  his  way,  some  glory  to  the  dust, 
Brings,  to  the  light,  some  haze  of  Paradise, 
Hungers  and  thirsts  for  beauty;  like  the  hound 
Snaps  it,  to  eat  alone;  in  secret  keeps 
His  miser's  patch  of  consecrated  ground 
Where  beauty's  coins  are  dug  down  to  the  deeps. 
So  when  disturbing  death  digs  up  our  lives, 
Some  little  gleam  among  the  broken  soil 
May  witness  for  us  as  the  shovel  rives 
The  dirty  heap  of  all  our  tiny  toil; 
Some  gleam  of  you  may  make  the  digger  hold, 
Touched  for  an  instant  with  the  thought  of 
gold. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS      109 


Time  being  an  instant  in  eternity, 
Beauty  above  man's  million  years  must  see 
The  heaped  corrupted  mass  that  had  to  die, 
The  husk  of  man  that  set  the  glitter  free; 
Now  from  those  million  bodies  in  the  dark, 
Forgotten,  rotten,  part  of  fields  or  roads, 
The  million  gleam  united  makes  a  spark 
Which  Beauty  sees  among  her  star  abodes. 
And,  from  the  bodies,  comes  a  sigh,  "Alas, 
We  hated,  fought  and  killed,  as  separate  men; 
Now  all  is  merged  and  we  are  in  the  grass, 
Our  efforts  merged,  would  we  had  known  it  then. 
All  our  lives'  battle,  all  our  spirits'  dream, 
Nought  in  themselves,  a  clash  which  made  a 
gleam." 


110      GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


You  will  remember  me  in  days  to  come 
With  love,  or  pride,  or  pity,  or  contempt; 
So  will  my  friends  (not  many  friends,  yet  some) 
When  this  my  lif e  will  be  a  dream  out-dreamt ; 
And  one,  remembering  friendship  by  the  fire, 
And  one,  remembering  love  time  in  the  dark, 
And  one,  remembering  unfulfilled  desire, 
Will  sigh,  perhaps,  yet  be  beside  the  mark; 
For  this  my  body  with  its  wandering  ghost 
Is  nothing  solely  but  an  empty  grange, 
Dark  in  a  night  that  owls  inhabit  most, 
Yet  when  the  king  rides  by  there  comes  a  change; 
The  windows  gleam,  the  cresset's  fiery  hair 
Blasts  the  blown  branch  and  beauty  lodges 
there. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS      111 


They  took  the  bloody  body  from  the  cross, 
They  laid  it  in  its  niche  and  rolled  the  stone. 
One  said,  "Our  blessed  Master,"  one  "His  loss 
Ends  us  companions,  we  are  left  alone." 
And  one,  "I  thought  that  Pilate  would  acquit 
Right  to  the  last;"  and  one,  "The  sergeant  took 
The  trenching  mall  and  drove  the  nails  with  it." 
One  who  was  weeping  went  apart  and  shook. 
Then  one,  "He  promised  that  in  three  short 

days 
He  would  return,  oh  God;  but  He  is  dead." 
And  one,  "What  was  it  that  He  meant  to  raise? 
The  Temple?    No?    What  was  it  that  He  said? 
He  said  that  He  would  build?    That  He  would 

rise?" 
"No,"  answered  one,  "but  come  from  Paradise. 


112      GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


"Come  to  us  fiery  with  the  saints  of  God 

To  judge  the  world  and  take  His  power  and 

reign." 
Then  one.    "  This  was  the  very  road  we  trod 
That  April  day,  would  it  could  come  again ; 
The  day  they  flung  the  flowers."    "Let  be," 

said  one, 
"He  was  a  lovely  soul,  but  what  He  meant 
Passes  our  wit,  for  none  among  us,  none, 
Had  brains  enough  to  fathom  His  intent. 
His  mother  did  not,  nor  could  one  of  us, 
But  while  He  spoke  I  felt  I  understood." 
And  one,  "He  knew  that  it  would  finish  thus. 
Let  His  thought  be,  I  know  that  He  was  good. 
There  is  the  orchard  see,  the  very  same 
Where  we  were  sleeping  when  the  soldiers 

came." 


OOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS      113 


So  from  the  cruel  cross  they  buried  God; 
So,  in  their  desolation,  as  they  went 
They  dug  him  deeper  with  each  step  they  trod, 
Their  lightless  minds  distorting  what  He  meant. 
Lamenting  Him,  their  leader,  who  had  died, 
They  heaped  the  stones,  they  rolled  the  heavy 

door; 
They  said,  "Our  glory  has  been  crucified, 
Unless  He  rise  our  glory  will  be  o'er." 
While  in  the  grave  the  spirit  left  the  corpse 
Broken  by  torture,  slowly,  line  by  line, 
And  saw  the  dawn  come  on  the  eastern  thorpes, 
And  shook  his  wings  and  sang  in  the  divine, 
Crying  "I  told  the  truth,  even  unto  death, 
Though  I  was  earth  and  now  am  only  breath." 


114      GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


If  all  be  governed  by  the  moving  stars, 
If  passing  planets  bring  events  to  be, 
Searing  the  face  of  Time  with  bloody  scars, 
Drawing  men's  souls  even  as  the  moon  the  sea; 
If  as  they  pass  they  make  a  current  pass 
Across  man's  life  and  heap  it  to  a  tide, 
We  are  but  pawns,  ignobler  than  the  grass 
Cropped  by  the  beast  and  crunched  and  tossed 

aside. 
Is  all  this  beauty  that  does  inhabit  heaven 
Trail  of  a  planet's  fire?    Is  all  this  lust 
A  chymic  means  by  warring  stars  contriven 
To  bring  the  violets  out  of  Caesar's  dust? 
Better  be  grass,  or  in  some  hedge  unknown 
The  spilling  rose  whose  beauty  is  its  own. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS      115 


In  emptiest  furthest  heaven  where  no  stars  are 
Perhaps  some  planet  of  our  master  sun 
Still  rolls  an  unguessed  orbit  round  its  star 
Unthought,  unseen,  unknown  of  any  one. 
Roving  dead  space  according  to  its  law 
Casting  our  light  on  burnt-out  suns  and  blind 
Singing  in  the  frozen  void  its  word  of  awe 
One  wandering  thought  in  all  that  idiot  mind. 
And,  in  some  span  of  many  a  thousand  year, 
Passing  through  heaven,  its  influence  may  arouse 
Beauty  unguessed  in  those  who  habit  here, 
And  men  may  rise  with  glory  on  their  brows, 
And  feel  new  life  like  fire,  and  see  the  old 
Fall  from  them  dead;  the  bronze's  broken  mould. 


116      GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


Perhaps  in  chasms  of  the  wasted  past, 
That  planet  wandered  within  hail  of  ours, 
And  plucked  men's  souls  to  loveliness  and  cast 
The  old,  that  was,  away,  like  husks  of  flowers; 
And  made  them  stand  erect  and  bade  them  build 
Nobler  than  hovels  plaited  in  the  mire, 
Gave  them  an  altar  and  a  god  to  gild, 
Bridled  the  brooks  for  them  and  fettered  fire; 
And,  in  another  coming,  forged  the  steel 
Which,  on  life's  scarlet  wax,  forever  set 
Longing  for  beauty  bitten  as  a  seal 
That  blood  not  clogs  nor  centuries  forget, 
That  built  Atlantis,  and,  in  time  will  raise 
That  grander  thing  whose  image  haunts  our 
days. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS      117 


For,  like  an  outcast  from  the  city,  I 

Wander  the  desert  strewn  with  traveller's  bones, 

Having  no  comrade  but  the  starry  sky 

Where  the  tuned  planets  ride  their  floating 

thrones. 
I  pass  old  ruins  where  the  kings  caroused 
In  cups  long  shards  from  vines  long  since  de- 
cayed, 
I  tread  the  broken  brick  where  queens  were 

housed 
In  beauty's  time  ere  beauty  was  betrayed; 
And  in  the  ceaseless  pitting  of  the  sand 
On  monolith  and  pyle,  I  see  the  dawn, 
Making  those  skeletons  of  beauty  grand 
By  fire  that  comes  as  darkness  is  withdrawn; 
And  in  that  fire  the  art  of  men  to  come 
Shines  with  such  glow  I  bless  my  martyrdom. 


118      GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Death  lies  in  wait  for  you,  you  wild  thing  in  the 
wood, 

Shy-footed  beauty  dear,  half-seen,  half-under- 
stood, 

Glimpsed  in  the  beech  wood  dim,  and  in  the 
dropping  fir, 

Shy  like  a  fawn  and  sweet  and  beauty's  minister. 

Glimpsed  as  in  flying  clouds  by  night  the  little 
moon, 

A  wonder,  a  delight,  a  paleness  passing  soon. 

Only  a  moment  held,  only  an  hour  seen, 
Only  an  instant  known  in  all  that  life  has  been, 
One  instant  in  the  sand  to  drink  that  gush  of  grace 
The  beauty  of  your  way,  the  marvel  of  your  face. 

Death  lies  in  wait  for  you,  but  few  short  hours 

he  gives, 
I  perish  even  as  you  by  whom  all  spirit  lives, 
Come  to  me,  spirit,  come,  and  fill  my  hour  of 

breath 
With  hours  of  life  in  life  that  pay  no  toll  to  death. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS      119 


What  are  we  given,  what  do  we  take  away? 
Five  little  senses,  startling  with  delight, 
That  dull  to  death  and  perish  into  clay 
And  pass  from  human  memory  as  from  sight. 
So  the  new  penny  glittering  from  the  mint, 
Bears  the  king's  head  awhile,  but  Time  effaces 
The  head,  the  date,  the  seated  queen,  the  print 
Even  as  a  brook  the  stone  in  pebbly  places. 
We  bear  the  stamp,  are  current,  and  are  prized, 
Hoarded  or  spent,  the  while  the  mintage  passes, 
Then,  like  light  money,  challenged  or  despised, 
We  join  the  heap  of  dross  which  Time  amasses, 
Erased,  uncurrent  discs  no  more  to  range 
The  clanging  counters  in  the  great  exchange. 


120     GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


They  called  that  broken  hedge  The  Haunted 

Gate. 
Strange  fires  (they  said)  burnt  there  at  moonless 

times. 
Evil  was  there,  men  never  went  there  late, 
The  darkness  there  was  quick  with  threatened 

crimes. 
And  then  one  digging  in  that  bloodied  clay 
Found,  but  a  foot  below,  a  rotted  chest. 
Coins  of  the  Romans,  tray  on  rusted  tray, 
Hurriedly  heaped  there  by  a  digger  prest. 
So  that  one  knew  how,  centuries  before, 
Some  Roman  flying  from  the  sack  by  night, 
Digging  in  terror  there  to  hide  his  store, 
Sweating  his  pick,  by  windy  lantern  light, 
Had  stamped  his  anguish  on  that  place's  soul, 
So  that  it  knew  and  could  rehearse  the  whole. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS      121 


There  was  an  evil  in  the  nodding  wood 
Above  the  quarry  long  since  overgrown, 
Something  which  stamped  it  as  a  place  of  blood 
Where  tortured  spirit  cried  from  murdered 

bone. 
Then,  after  years,  I  saw  a  rusty  knife 
Stuck  in  a  woman's  skull,  just  as  'twas  found, 
Blackt  with  a  centuried  crust  of  clotted  life, 
In  the  red  clay  of  that  unholy  ground. 
So  that  I  knew  the  unhappy  thing  had  spoken, 
That  tongueless  thing  for  whom  the  quarry 

spoke, 
The  evil  seals  of  murder  had  been  broken 
By  the  red  earth,  the  grass,  the  rooted  oak, 
The  inarticulate  dead  had  forced  the  spade, 
The  hand,  the  mind,  till  murder  was  displayed. 


122      GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

Go,  spend  your  penny,  Beauty,  when  you  will, 
In  the  grave's  darkness  let  the  stamp  be  lost. 
The  water  still  will  bubble  from  the  hill, 
And  April  quick  the  meadows  with  her  ghost; 
Over  the  grass  the  daffodils  will  shiver, 
The  primroses  with  their  pale  beauty  abound, 
The  blackbird  be  a  lover  and  make  quiver 
With  his  glad  singing  the  great  soul  of  the 

ground; 
So  that  if  the  body  rot,  it  will  not  matter; 
Up  in  the  earth  the  great  game  will  go  on, 
The  coming  of  Spring  and  the  running  of  the 

water, 
And  the  young  things  glad  of  the  womb's 

darkness  gone; 
And  the  joy  we  felt  will  be  a  part  of  the  glory 
In  the  lover's  kiss  that  makes  the  old  couple's 

story. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS      123 


Not  for  your  human  beauty  nor  the  power 
To  shake  me  by  your  voice  or  by  your  touch, 
Summer  must  have  its  rose,  the  rose  must 

flower, 
Beauty  burn  deep,  I  do  not  yield  to  such. 
No,  but  because  your  beauty  where  it  falls 
Lays  bare  the  spirits  in  the  crowded  streets, 
Shatters  the  lock,  destroys  the  castle  walls, 
Breaks  down  the  bars  till  friend  with  comrade 

meets, 
So  that  I  wander  brains  where  beauty  dwelled 
In  long  dead  time,  and  see  again  the  rose 
By  long  dead  men  for  living  beauty  held, 
That  Death's  knife  spares,  and  Winter  with  his 

snows, 
And  know  it  bloodied  by  that  pulse  of  birth 
Which  greens  the  grass  in  Aprils  upon  earth. 


124      GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


The  little  robin  hopping  in  the  wood 
Draws  friendship  from  you,  the  rapt  nightingale 
Making  the  night  a  marvellous  solitude, 
Only  of  you  to  darkness  tells  the  tale. 
Kingfishers  are  but  jewels  on  your  dress, 
Dun  deer  that  rove  and  timid  rabbits  shy 
Are  but  the  hintings  of  your  gentleness. 
Upon  your  wings  the  eagle  climbs  the  sky. 
Fish  that  are  shadows  in  the  water  pass 
With  mystery  from  you,  the  purpled  moth 
Dust  from  your  kirtle  on  his  broidery  has, 
Out  of  your  bounty  every  beauty  flowth. 
For  you  are  all,  all  fire,  all  living  form, 
Marvel  in  man  and  glory  in  the  worm. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS      125 


Though  in  life's  streets  the  tempting  shops  have 

lured, 
Because  all  beauty,  howsoever  base, 
Is  vision  of  you,  marred,  I  have  endured 
Tempted  or  fall'n,  to  look  upon  your  face. 
Now  through  the  grinning  death's  head  in  the 

paint, 
Within  the  tavern-song,  hid  in  the  wine, 
In  many  kinded  man,  emperor  and  saint, 
I  see  you  pass,  you  breath  of  the  divine. 
I  see  you  pass,  as  centuries  ago 
The  long  dead  men  with  passionate  spirit  saw, 
O  brother  man,  whom  spirit  habits  so, 
Through  your  red  sorrows  Beauty  keeps  her 

law, 
Beauty  herself,  who  takes  your  dying  hand, 
To  leave  through  Time  the  Memnon  in  the  sand. 


126      GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


When  all  these  million  cells  that  are  my  slaves 
Fall  from  my  pourried  ribs  and  leave  me  lone, 
A  living  speck  among  a  world  of  graves, 
What  shall  I  be,  that  spot  in  the  unknown? 
A  glow-worm  in  a  night  that  floats  the  sun? 
Or  deathless  dust  feeling  the  passer's  foot? 
An  eye  undying  mourning  things  undone? 
Or  seed  for  quickening  free  from  prisoning 

fruit? 
Or  an  eternal  jewel  on  your  robe, 
Caught  to  your  heart,  one  with  the  April  fire 
That  made  me  yours  as  man  upon  the  globe, 
One  with  the  Spring,  a  breath  in  all  desire, 
One  with  the  primrose,  present  in  all  joy? 
Or  pash  that  rots,  which  pismires  can  destroy? 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS      127 

Let  that  which  is  to  come  be  as  it  may, 
Darkness,  extinction,  justice,  life  intense, 
The  flies  are  happy  in  the  summer  day, 
Flies  will  be  happy  many  summers  hence. 
Time  with  his  antique  breeds  that  built  the 

Sphynx 
Time  with  her  men  to  come  whose  wings  will 

tower, 
Poured  and  will  pour,  not  as  the  wise  man 

thinks, 
But  with  blind  force,  to  each  his  little  hour. 
And  when  the  hour  has  struck,  comes  death  or 

change, 
Which,  whether  good  or  ill,  we  cannot  tell, 
But  the  blind  planet  will  wander  through  her 

range 
Bearing  men  like  us  who  will  serve  as  well. 
The  sun  will  rise,  the  winds  that  ever  move 
Will  blow  our  dust  that  once  were  men  in  love. 


THE  MADMAN'S  SONG 

You  have  not  seen  what  I  have  seen, 

The  town  besieged  by  a  million  men; 

I  saw  it  though,  the  people  starved, 

My  rib-bones  here  came  through  my  skin. 

Thousands  were  killed  and  thousands  died, 

We  ate  dead  blow-flies  from  the  stalls; 

"Help  us,  0  Lord,  our  King,"  we  cried; 

He  could  not  help,  for  all  our  calls. 

No,  but  there  was  a  poor  mean  man, 

A  skinny  man  and  mad,  like  me, 

He  saw:  he  told  the  King  his  plan, 

A  plan  to  set  our  city  free. 

The  King  in  fury  had  him  bound, 

Dragged  to  the  walls  with  kick  and  curse, 

And  flung  from  off  them  to  the  ground; 

Daily  our  agonies  grew  worse. 

And  all  our  sallies  came  to  wreck, 

We  ate  the  dead  men  from  the  grave, 

128 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS      129 
Our  troops  were  killed  or  put  in  check, 
"O  King,"  we  cried,  "in  pity,  save, 
Save  us  or  we  shall  die,"  we  cried. 
He  could  not  save  us,  so  we  died. 

****** 
But  then  he  called  to  mind  the  man 
Whose  bones  the  dogs  had  picked  by  this, 
He  murmured,  "We  will  try  the  plan, 
Death  would  be  better  than  what  is. 
I'll  try  the  madman's  plan  to-night. 
Do  I  remember  it  aright?" 

****** 
We  did  the  madman's  will,  we  won, 
We  left  the  million  rotting  there; 
Not  one  remained  alive,  not  one, 
The  madman's  wisdom  was  most  rare. 
We  laughed,  we  ate  again,  we  drank, 
Rebuilt  the  city,  walls  and  towers, 
We  cried  "  We  have  the  King  to  thank." 
We  strewed  his  royal  path  with  flowers. 


130      GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS 

But  I  who  am  mad  am  wiser  now, 

I  wander  in  the  city  ditch, 

For  wisdom  grows  on  the  withered  bough. 

Flowers  are  fair  and  fruit  is  rich, 

But  wisdom  is  lovelier  than  them  all. 

So  when  the  world  is  hard  at  work, 

I  kneel  in  the  foss  below  the  wall 

On  the  rubble  where  the  lizards  lurk. 
****** 

The  goutweed  hides  the  poor  man's  bones, 
The  mint-scent  warms  in  the  hot  air, 
An  influence  comes  out  of  the  stones, 
The  dead  man's  spirit  quickens  there, 
Singing,  "I  trod  the  piteous  way 
The  world  despised  me,  comrades  failed, 
But  from  above  an  unquenched  ray 
Burned  in  my  brain:  it  never  quailed; 
My  body  shook,  my  mind  had  doubt, 
That  star  within  me  helped  me  on, 
Man,  the  walled  town  which  cast  me  out, 
Was  powerless  like  a  fever  gone. 


GOOD  FRIDAY  AND  OTHER  POEMS      131 

And  now  I  know  that  light  is  like  the  sea, 
I  was  the  rock  it  girt,  it  beat  on  me. 
I  was  the  deaf-mute,  blinded  by  a  curse, 
Outside  me  was  the  starry  universe 
I  had  but  to  unlatch  to  let  it  in. 
Nothing  but  mental  blindness  can  be  sin, 
All  seeing  saves,  all  hearing,  all  delight, 
I  am  a  star.    I  wander  through  the  night." 


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LV  V 


